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The  Glenn  Negley  Collection 
of  Utopian  Literature 


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Duke  University  Libraries 


Iittp://www.arcliive.org/details/lifeofcliarlesbr01dunl 


-w 


THE  LIFE 

i 


OF 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN 


TOGETHER 


WITH  SELECTIONS 


FROM 


THE  RAREST  OF  HIS  PRINTED  WORKS, 


FROM    HIS 


ORIGINAL  LETTERS, 


AND    FROM    HIS 


MANUSCRIPTS  BEFORE  UNPUBLISHED 


BY  WILLIAM  DUNLAP. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  I. 


PHILADELPHLi  - 

PUBLISHED  BY  JAMES  P.  PARKE, 

NO.    74,    SOUTH    SECOND    STREET. 

Merritt,  Printer. 
1815. 


District  of  Pennsylvania^  to  wit: 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  that  on  the  eighth  clay  of  November  In  the  for- 
tieth year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States  of  America,  A.  D  1816. 
Elizabeth  L.  Brown  of  the  said  district,  hath  deposited  in  this  office  the  title 
of  a  book  the  right  whereof  she  claims  as  proprietor  in  the  words  following  ; 
to  wit : 

"  The  Life  of  Charles  Brockden  Brown :  together  -with  selections  from  the 
reffest  of  his  printed  works,  from  his  original  letters,  and  from  his  manuscripts 
btfore  unpublished.     By  William  Dunlap.     In  Two  Volumes." 

In  conformity  to  the  act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled  "  an  act 
for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts,  and 
books  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies  during  the  time  therein 
mentioned."  And  also  to  the  act  entitled  "  an  act  supplementary  to  an  act  en- 
titled "  an  act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning  by  securing  the  copies  of 
maps,  charts,  and  books  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies  during 
the  times  therein  mentioned,"  and  extending  the  benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of 
designing,  engraving,  and  etching  historical  and  other  prints. 

D.  CALDWELL, 
Clerk  of  the  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


D?1IL 

\/.  1 


PREFACE. 


The  plan  of  these  volumes,  and  the  proposals  for  their 
publication  were  laid  before  the  public  without  the  know- 
ledge of  the  writer  of  the  biography.  Engagements  hav- 
ing been  entered  into  with  subscribers,  the  present  writer 
has  been  engaged  to  fulfil  them,  but  not  until  the  selec- 
tions for  the  first  volume  had  been  made  and  printed. 

The  gentleman  who  made  this  selection  conceived, 
that  although  these  papers  "  might  excite,  without  grati- 
fying the  reader's  curiosity,  they  might  be  considered  as 
of  some  importance  in  a  biographic  point  of  view.  They 
develope  the  extent  and  variety  of  his  (the  author's)  intel- 
lectual powers  more  fully  than  a  mere  statement  of  the 
fact  could  have  done  without  such  documents.  This  is 
the  only  interest  which  it  was  expected  that  their  publica- 
tion would  excite,  and  with  this  view  only  they  were 
given. 

"  This  will  likewise  serve  to  explain  what  might  other- 
wise appear  confused  in  the  arrangement  of  this  matter. 
The  author,  from  a  long  train  of  subtle  and  metaphysical 
reasoning  would  fly  to  fancy  for  recreation,  and  from  fancy 
to  metaphysical  subtleties  again.  It  was  supposed  that  by 
combining  these  the  reader  would  be  able  to  conceive  with 


IV  PREFACE. 

more  accuracy  the  power  which  the  writer  possessed  in  so 
eminent  a  degree,  of  changing  his  topics  when  the  one 
which  he  handled  became  irksome.  He  is  thus  made 
in  a  measure  to  speak  his  own  biography,  and  to  super- 
sede the  necessity  of  further  comment.  In  short,  these  pa- 
pers, unfinished  as  they  evidently  are,  will,  it  is  presumed, 
answer  the  purpose  for  which  alone  they  were  intended, 
to  give  a  fair  exhibition  of  the  extent  and  variety  of  the 
author's  powers.  That  they  are  not  brought  to  a  regular 
conclusion,  is  to  be  undoubtedly  regretted ;  but  this  de- 
fect is  irremediable  by  the  death  of  the  writer,  and  in  all 
human  probability  they  would  have  remained  in  their 
present  state  w^erc  he  now  living." 


BIOGRAPHY 


or 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN, 


XT  is  generally  expected  that  the  subjects  of  biography  should 
be  men,  who,  having  attracted  the  world's  gaze  by  their  deeds, 
their  inventions,  or  their  writings,  leave  at  their  death  a  strong 
curiosity,  to  be  satisfied  by  a  detail  of  their  private  lives,  and 
the  circumstances  which  led  to  their  notoriety.  But  the  subject 
of  the  present  work  had  not  attracted  that  universal  notice,  nor 
excited  that  interest,  even  among  his  countrymen  generally, 
whicli  would  authorize  the  writing  his  life  upon  the  principle 
of  gratifying  public  curiosity  ;  yet  there  are  not  wanting  suffi- 
cient reasons  to  induce  an  expectation  that  these  volumes  will 
excite  interest,  convey  instruction,  and  induce  a  lively  regret 
that  their  subject  was  prevented  by  death  from  attaining  that 
celebrity  which  his  talents  and  acquirements  must  have  gained 
for  him,  and  of  leaving  to  his  country  works  of  the  highest 
importance  both  scientific  and  literary. 

Charles  Brockden  Brown  was  among  the  earlier  adventurers 
into  the  world  of  fiction  and  the  painful  path  of  public  amuse- 
ment or  instruction,  by  the  pen  and  the  press,  which  the  Unit- 
pd  States  of  America  produced ;  and  the  early  adventurers  in 

2  * 


10 

all  perilous  undertakings  are  justh'  objects  ot  curiosity  and  in* 
terest.  Those  who  first  saw  the  propriety  of  men  in  a  new 
and  better  political  state,  throwing  off  the  shackles  of  an  ab- 
surd prejudice  in  favour  of  European  opinions  and  writings^ 
as  they  had  thrown  from  thera  the  proffered  chains  and  reject- 
ed the  pretensions  of  European  tyranny  ;  those  who  first  saw* 
that  the  inhabitants  of  a  country  no  less  removed  by  the  enjoy- 
ment of  greater  liberty  and  better  forms  of  government,  by  the 
more  extensive  diffusion  of  the  benefits  of  education  and  pro- 
perty, and  the  consequent  greater  purity  of  public  morals,  from 
the  tyranny  and  intolerance  of  the  long  established  govern- 
ments of  Europe,  and  the  squalid  ignorance  and  poverty  of  the 
principal  part  of  their  popuhition,  than  by  the  remoteness  of 
their  situation  from  the  ordinary  range  of  European  polilics 
and  influence  of  European  ambition  ;  those  who  at  the  same 
time  that  they  acknowledged  the  inestimable  value  of  English, 
French  and  German  literature,  saw  the  necessit}'  of  establishing 
a  literature  for  their  own  country  ;  who  saw  the  advantages  of 
publications  suited  to  a  new  state  of  manners  and  political 
(Economy,  and  which  shouIcJ  not  only  pi-oduce  original  instruc- 
tion, but  point  out  and  sever  the  good  from  the  bad  in  the  lit- 
erature and  institutions  of  Europe  ;  however  inefficient  their 
efforts  may  have  been,  are  entitled  to  the  thanks  of  their 
countr\'men,  and  will  hereafter  be  esteemed  not  merclj^  in 
proportion  to  that  which  they  performed,  but  by  the  eflects  of 
their  efforts  upon  those  who  follow  in  the  path  they  opened. 
On  this  ground,  as  well  as  on  that  of  uncommon  talents  and 
exemplary  virtues,  the  subject  of  the  follovv-ing  pages  is  enti- 
tled to-  a  targe  portion  of  public  attention. 

It  may  be  asserted  that  no  man  contemns  the  credit  which  is 
derived  from  ancestry*  The  honours  which  are  bestowed,  or 
assumed,  from  the  mere  circumstance  of  being  able  to  speak 
of  the  fame  or  virtues  of  our  forefathers  are  doubtless  of  lit- 
tle value  in  comparison  with  those  honours  which  personal 
merit  obtains ;  yet  they  are,  in  the  opinion  of  mankind,  of 
some  worth,  and  are  felt  to  be  so  by  every  individual.  Of 
this  species  of  credit,  Charles  Brockden  Brown  had  a  larger 
share  than  falls  to  the  lot  of  the   greater  portion  of  mankind ; 


11 

and  stood  on  the  happj'  level  with  most  of  his  fellow  citizens 
of  the  United  States.  His  parents  were  virtuous,  religious 
people,  and  as  such  held  a  respectable  rank  in  society  ;  and 
he  could  trace  ba.elc  a  long  line  of  ancestry  holding  the  same 
honourable  station.  Natives  of  England,  and  professing  those 
religious  opinions  which  drew  upon  the  first  of  the  sect,  the 
contemptuous  appellation  of  Quaker,  an  appellation  which, 
though  bestowed  in  reviling,  has  become  a  name  of  honour, 
and  adoption  through  the  virtues  of  the  possessors,  his  an- 
cestors fled  from  the  persecutions  of  their  country  in  the  same 
ship  with  William  Penn,  and  trusted  to  the  savages  and  the 
•wilderness,  rather  than    to   the  justice   of   their  countrymen. 

Charles  Brockden  Brown  was  born  on  the  seventeenth  day  of 
January,  in  the  year  l/ri,  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia. 

Brown  is  one  of  those  names  which  belongs  to  so  great  a 
portion  of  those  who  descend  from  English  parentage,  that 
it  ceases  to  identify  an  individual.  Brockden  is  a  happy  ad- 
dition which  was  derived  from  a  distant  relation  whose  his- 
tory as  preserved  in  the  traditionary  records  of  the  family  is 
too  remai-kable  to  be  passed  over  without  notice. 

Charles  Brockden  lived  in  England,  under  the  reign  of  the 
Infamous  Charles  the  Second.  It  is  well  known  that  the  latter 
part  of  the  life  of  the  monarch  was  disturbed,  if  not  by  con- 
science, at  least  by  the  dread  of  the  people's  vengeance.  Re- 
ports of  plots  and  conspiracies  disturbed  the  pensioner  of 
France,  even  in  the  arms  of  his  mistresses.  Charles  Brock- 
den was  at  that  time  a  student  in  the  office  of  a  lawyer  who 
was  deeply  implicated  in  one  of  these  plots.  The  conspira- 
tors assembled  at  the  house  of  his  master  for  the  purpose  of 
holding  a  consultation  on  the  most  practicable  mode  of  ac- 
complishing their  design.  Brockden  in  an  adjoining  room 
heard  distinctly  the  whole  of  their  conversation,  but  was  at 
length,  by  some  untoward  accident,  discovered  by  the  conspi- 
rators. Aware  of  his  danger  he  counterfeited  sleep  ;  but  so 
serious  was  the  dread  of  detection,  excited  by  this  circum- 
stance in  the  minds  of  the  conspirators,  that  for  their  mutual 
security,  the  majority  of  them  resolved  upon  his  immediate 
death.     His  master  wishing  to  preserve  the  life  of  his  appreo- 


12 

tjice,  represented  him  as  too  stupid  to  comprehend  the  mean- 
ing of  their  conversation  had  he  hstened  to  it,  and  used  his 
eloquence  to  persuade  them  not  to  embrue  their  hands  in  the 
blood  of  an  innocent  boy.  They  yielded  for  the  time,  but  so 
great  was  his  personal  danger  afterwards,  from  the  returning 
apprehensions  of  the  conspirators,  that  his  master  insisted  on 
his  embracing  the  first  favourable  opportunity  of  embarking 
for  America.  This  the  boy  accordingly  did,  and  was  pro- 
moted by  his  talents  and  industry  to  an  important  office  in  the 
province  of  Pennsylvania,  which  he  filled  with  dignity  and 
honour.  From  this  person  Charles  Brown  inherited  the  ad- 
ditional name  of  Brockden. 

Charles  Brockden  Brown  at  a  very  early  period  of  childhood 
acquired  that  fondness  for  books  which  encreased  with  him 
through  life.  Possessing  a  frail  and  delicate  constitution  he 
seldom  mingled  in  the  sports  of  children,  and  that  spirit  of  cu- 
riosity which  is  strong  within  us  at  our  entrance  upon  the  bust- 
ling scenes  of  life,  not  being  gratified  or  dissipated  by  the  usual 
communication  and  exertions  of  childhood,  found  in  books  a 
delightful  source  of  knowledge,  and  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 
amusement.  The  mind  of  Charles  was  intensely  devoted  to 
reading  at  an  age  in  which  boys  are  usually  exhausting  their 
superabundant  spirit  of  animation  in  what  appears  idle  recrea- 
tion, but  which  often  gives  spring  and  force  to  both  mental  and 
physical  exertion  in  future  life.  I^is  parents  relate  that  when 
but  an  infant,  if  they  left  home,  he  required  nothing  but  a  book 
to  divert  him,  and  on  their  return  they  would  find  him  musing 
over  the  page  with  all  the  gravity  of  a  student.  On  his  return 
from  school  they  would  find  him  at  the  hour  of  dinner  in  the 
parlour,  where,  having  slipped  off  his  shoes,  he  was  mounted 
on  a  table  and  deeply  engaged  in  the  consultation  of  a  map  sus- 
pended on  the  side  of  the  wall.  It  was  thus  that  in  Charles 
intellectual  labour  itself  became  a  species  of  recreation  ;  and 
thinking,  which  is  to  the  uncultivated  so  laborious  and  irk- 
some an  occupation,  became  to  him  the  most  delightful  of  em- 
ployments. 

At  the  age  of  ten  Charles  was  reproved  by  a  visitor  of  his 
♦ather's  for  some  remark,  which  probably  ought  to  have  called 


13 

forth  commendation,  by  the  contemptuous  appellation  of  boy. 
After  the  guest  had  departed,  "  Why  does  he  call  me  boy  ?" 
said  Charles,  **  Does  he  not  know  that  it  is  neither  size  nor 
age,  but  understanding  that  makes  the  man  ?  I  could  ask  him 
•  an  hundred  questions,  none  of  which  he  could  answer."  At 
this  period  of  his  life  he  was  so  intimately  acquainted  with 
the  science  of  geography,  that  he  became  a  sort  of  gazetteer 
to  his  father,  and  would  point  out  to  him  on  the  map  or  chart 
almost  any  part  of  the  world  which  he  made  inquiry  after  ;  and 
could  generally  give  some  account  of  the  place. 

With  habits  so  happily  adapted  to  derive  every  advantage 
from  instruction  and  disciplined  study,  he  entered  the  school 
of  Robert  Proud,  now  well  known  as  the  author  of  the  history 
of  Pennsylvania.  At  the  age  of  eleven  he  received  from  this 
gentleman  the  rudiments  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages ; 
and  jNIr.  Proud  always  spoke  in  the  inost  flattering  terms  of  his 
rapid  proficiency  and  unabating  industry.  The  constitution 
of  Charles,  at  all  times  delicate,  was  now  breaking  down  be- 
neath the  efforts  which  strengthened  and  enriched  his  mind. 
What  pity  it  is  that  the  application  which  assimilates  man  most 
to  the  exalted  idea  which  we  form  of  immortal  perfection 
should  so  certainly  tend  to  enfeeble  his  body  and  shorten  his 
mortal  existence,  while  the  brutalizing  occupations  of  con- 
tinued and  thought-expelling  labour,  give  firmness  and  vigour 
and  duration  to  the  frame  of  man.  We  are  thus,  however, 
taught  to  check  the  ardent  pursuit  of  knowledge,  and  deny 
gratification  to  our  love  of  seclusion  ;  to  recal  our  minds  to 
the  mingled  scenes  of  society,  and  impose  upon  our  bodies 
the  necessary  tasks  of  labour  and  healthful  exercise.  Charleses 
preceptor  at  this  time  recommended  an  abstinence  from  study, 
and  prescribed  relaxation  and  excursions  into  the  country  as 
indispensible  for  the  re-establishment  of  his  health. 

The  excursions  of  Charles  were  made  on  foot,  and  so  great 
was  the  benefit  which  he  received  from  his  pedestrian  exer- 
cises, that  he  continued  the  practice  ever  after.  The  man 
who  is  habituated  to  solitary  walking  knows  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  make  the  mind  move  with  the  same  creeping  pace 
'vhlch  is  imposed  upon  the  body ;  ever  alert,  it  flies  into  ever\' 


14 

region  of  the  known  and  unknown  world,  and  while  the  feet 
measure  the  distance  between  two  mile  stones,  the  mind~ranges 
through  the  boundless  regions  of  possible  existence.  Hence 
arises  an  habitual  abstraction,  which  operating  upon  a  mind 
so  previously  prepared  as  that  of  Charles's,  caused,  from  a* 
total  unconsciousness  of  what  was  passing  about  him,  or  ol 
the  flight  of  time,  or  the  progress  of  his  feet,  such  unseason- 
able rambles  as  often  to  excite  great  uneasiness  in  the  different 
members  of  his  family. 

After  he  left  the  school  of  Mr.  Proud,  which  was  before 
he  had  completed  the  sixteenth  year  of  his  age,  he  wrote  a 
number  of  essays,  some  in  verse  and  some  in  prose.  Amongst 
these  may  be  mentioned,  a  version  of  a  part  of  the  book  of  Job, 
some  of  the  psalms  of  David,  and  several  passages  of  Ossi- 
an.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  sketched  plans  of  three  distinct 
epic  poems,  one  on  the  discovery  of  America,  another  on  Pi- 
zarro's  conquest  of  Peru,  and  a  third  on  Cortez's  expedition 
to  Mexico.  With  these  he  was  much  engrossed,  and  for 
some  time  thought  life  only  desirable  as  a  mean  for  their  ac- 
complishment. 

About  this  time  Charles  busied  himself  in  inventing  a  spe- 
cies of  short-hand  writing,  and  actually  enabled  himself  to 
take  down  the  words  of  a  speaker  with  almost  the  same  ra- 
pidity as  they  are  usually  uttered  ;  he  likewise  studied,  unas- 
sisted but  by  books,  the  French  language.  In  this  state  of 
intellectual  revelry,  by  diversif}ing  his  studies  and  pursuits 
he  gave  to  each  a  character  of  novelty,  which  answered  the 
purposes  of  relaxation,  and  bv  the  aid  of  his  pedestrain  ram- 
bles kept  up  as  ample  a  portion  of  strength  and  health  as 
the  nature  of  his  constitution  and  the  slender  texture  of  liis 
body  would  admit. 

But  amids^t  the  diversities  of  study  and  changes  of  avoca- 
tion in  which  his  active  mind  ran  riot,  it  now  became  indispensa- 
bly necessary  for  him  to  make  his  choice  of  a  profession. 
I'hat  freedom  almost  amounting  to  licentiousness  with  which 
Charles  roved  unguided  in  pursuit  of  knowledge,  had  not 
httcd  him  for  the  severe  study  of  one  science ;  however,  he 
made   his  choice    of  the  profession  of  the  law.     This  science, 


15 

to  a  mind  so  ardent  in  the  pursuit  of  information,  opened  a 
wide  and  inexhaustible  field  for  indulgence.  It  is  withal,  in 
this  country,  one  of  the  roads  to  opulence,  and  the  most  cer- 
tain path  to  political  importance  and  fame.  Charles  needed 
not  the  importunity  of  friends  or  relatives  to  decide  his  choice 
in  favour  of  the  law,  and  M'as  with  high  expectations  of  fu- 
ture eminence  in  that  profession,  apprenticed  to  Alexander 
Wilcox,  esqr.  an  eminent  lawyer  of  Philadelphia. 

There  is  no  circumstance  of  more  importance  to  a  man's 
future  welfare,  than  that  his  early  associates  should  be  hap- 
pily chosen.  Brown  selected  for  his  first  set  of  friends,  se- 
veral young  men  of  brilliant  talents,  amiable  dispositions  and 
ardent  minds,  who,  though  all  of  characters  verv  distinct 
from  his,  excited  his  emulation  and  called  into  action  his  men- 
tal powers.  He  at  this  time  became  one  of  a  society  for  de- 
bating questions  of  law,  and  had  for  associates  young  men 
who  have  since  been  the  ornaments  of  the  profession,  yet 
Charles  was,  amongst  these,  distinguished  both  for  solidity 
of  judgment,  and  acuteness  of  investigation- 

After  the  day,  passed  in  Mr.  Wilcox's  office,  Charles  re- 
tired to  his  chamber  and  recorded  in  a  journal  all  the  inci- 
dents and  reflections  which  had  occurred  in  that  space  of 
time.  He  composed  and  transcribed  letters  and  even  copi- 
ed into  his  journal  the  epistles  he  received  from  his  corres- 
pondents. This  severe  tax  upon  his  time  was  intended  for 
improvement  both  in  thinking  and  writing,  and  as  a  record 
of  that  improvement.  He  was  always  anxious  to  acquire  a 
facility  of  writing  and  a  correct  and  graceful  style ;  and 
journalizing  was  the  first  expedient  which  suggested  it- 
self to  him  for  the  accomplishment  of  that  desirable  object. 
He  early,  however,  studied  with  assiduity,  the  writings  of 
the  best  English  authors,  with  the  same  view,  and  those  who 
have  attended  to  his  later  writings  v/lU  not  hesitate  to  give 
great  praise  to  the  style  in  which  they  are  composed,  and' 
to  lament  that  so  early  a  period  was  put  by  death  to  the  rapid 
improvement  of  his  rich  and  active  mind. 

Among  the  associates  of  Broun,  was  one  of  the  name  of 
Davidson,    who  conceived  the  design  of  forming  and  estab- 


16 

Ushing  a  literary  society.  Brown  was  invited  to  become  a 
member,  but  not  having  at  that  time  a  just  idea  of  the  im- 
provement always  derived  from  such  associations,  he  enter- 
ed reluctantly  into  the  plan,  but  soon  became  the  leader,  and 
prepared  a  set  of  rules  which  were  adopted  with  some  slight 
modifications.  The  society  consisted  of  nine  members,  and 
was  called  the  Belles  Lettre  Club.  Its  object  was  twofold,  im- 
provement in  composition  and  eloquence ;  and  in  both,  there 
is  good  reason  to  believe  that  Brown  excelled  his  com- 
panions. 

As  member  of  the  law  society,  Charles  was  no  less 
zealous  and  active.  While  president,  it  was  part  of  his  of- 
ficial duty  to  record  his  judgment  on  the  questions  debat- 
ed. These  records  are  now  preserved,  and  they  afford 
an  honourable  testimony  to  his  sagacity,  sound  judgment 
and  research.  They  are  likewise  delivered  in  a  style  of  gravi- 
ty, becoming  a  judge,  and  widely  different  from  that  in  which 
he  usually  wrote.  It  has  been  remarked  by  a  friend,  "  that 
the  most  complicated  judgment,"  recorded  by  Charles  "embrac- 
ing reported  cases  of  unusual  subtlety  with  his  reasons  at 
length  on  a  question  by  far  the  most  difficult  that  fell  to  his 
province  to  decide,  is  delivered  with  more  perspicuity  than 
any  of  the  rest,  in  a  language  destitute  of  all  embellishment, 
and  with  peculiar  nicety  of  detail.  He  was  in  fact,"  con- 
tinues the  same  friend,  "a  model  of  the  dr}-,  grave,  and  judi- 
cial st}le  of  argument.  Directly  after  he  had  disposed  of 
this  question,  as  appears  from  his  journal,  he  gave  vent  to 
his  fancy  in  a  poetical  effusion,  as  much  distinguished  by  itr. 
wild  and  excentric  brilliance,  as  the  other  composition  was 
for  its  plain  sobriety  and  gravity  of  style.  They  are  perfect 
opposites,  and  any  one  who  perused  them,  would  with  diffi- 
culty be  persuaded  that  so  much  excentricity,  and  so  much 
regularity,  were  the  productions  of  one  man ;  much  less 
would  he  believe  them  to  have  proceeded  from  the  same 
source  with  the  interval  of  a  few  moments  only." 

While  thus  ostensibly  studying  law,  but  in  reality  indulg- 
ing himself  in  every  freak,  suggested  by  his  love  of  litera- 
ture and  of  fame,  he   presented  himself  to  the  world  in  the 


17 

Columbian  Magazine,  in  the  character  of  a  rhapsodist.  The 
first  number  of  this  series  was  published  in  the  month  of 
August,  1789.  Although  the  title  was  assumed,  the  charac- 
ter was  not.  Charles  in  these  essays  exhibits  himself.  We 
behold  a  young  and  ardent  mind  straining  after  unattaina- 
ble perfection,  always  dissatisfied  with  and  struggling  to  sur- 
pass its  most  successful  efforts.  He  tells  the  world  with 
what  rapture  he  has  held  communion  with  his  own  thoughts 
amidst  the  gloom  of  surrounding  woods,  where  his  fancy 
*'  has  peopled  every  object  with  ideal  beings,  and  the  barrier 
between  himself  and  the  world  of  spirits,  seemed  burst  by 
the  force  of  meditation.  In  tliis  solitude  he  feels  himself 
surrounded  by  a  delightful  society  j  but  when  he  is  transport- 
ed from  thence,  and  compelled  to  listen  to  the  frivolous 
chat  of  his  fellow  beings,  he  then  suffers  all  the  miseries  of 
solitude.  xie  acknowledges  however,  that  his  intercourse 
and  conversation  with  mankind  had  wrought  a  salutary 
change  j  that  he  can  now  mingle  in  the  concerns  of  life,  per- 
form his  appropriate  duties,  and  reserve  that  higher  species 
of  discourse  for  the  solitude   and  silence  of  his  study." 

That  Charles  thus  early  saw  the  error  of  indulging  in  this 
romancing  vein,  and  perceived  that  it  unfitted  him  for  the  con- 
versation and  duties  of  real  life  is  here  made  evident ;  but 
that  he  had  at  this  time  or  even  much  later  in  life,  corrected 
the  evil,  was  not  true.  He  long  after  this  period  loathed  the 
common  pursuits  and  common  topics  of  men,  and  appeared 
in   society  an  eccentric,  if  not  an  isolated  being. 

About  this  time  he  published  in  an  Edentown  nev/s-paper, 
a  poetical  address  to  Dr.  Franklin.  "  The  blundering  printer, 
says  Charles  in  his  journal,  from  his  zeal  or  his  ignorance, 
or  pei-haps  from  both,  substituted  the  name  of  Washington. 
Washington  therefore  stands  arrayed  in  awkward  colours. 
Philosophy  smiles  to  behold  her  darling  son ;  she  turns  with 
horror  and  disgust  from  those  who  have  won  the  laurel  of 
victory  in  the  field  of  battle,  to  this  her  favourite  candidate 
who  had  never  participated  in  such  bloody  glory,  and  whose 
fame  was  derived  from  the  conquest  of  philosophy  alone. 
The  printer  by  his  blundering  ingenuity  made  the  subject  ri- 

3  ^ 


18 

diculous.  Every  word  of  this  clumsy  panegyric  was  a  di- 
rect slander  upon  Washington,  and  so  it  was  regarded  at  the 
time."  , 

The  formation  of  the  literar}^  society  or  Belles  Leltre  Club 
before,  was  probably  the  most  powerful  circumstance  in  the 
early  life  of  Brown  in  deciding  his  future  prospects  and  des- 
tiny. As  such  I  will  dwell  more  particularly  on  some  cir- 
cumstances connected  with  its  formation,  especially  as  they 
display  uncommoft  powers  of  intellect  and  language  in  a  boy 
of  sixteen. 

Charles  had  demanded  of  his  friend  Davidson,  by  letter, 
*'  the  relatio?h  dependa?ice,  and  connection  of  the  several  parts 
of  knoxvledge^''  and  his  friend,  in  reply,  instead  of  answering 
his  question,  proposes  a  literary  society.  Disappointed,  Charles 
undertakes  to  answer  himself  thus  in  his  Journal : 

"  The  relations,  dependencies,  and  connections  of  the  several 
parts  of  knowledge,  have  long  been  a  subject  of  unavailing  in- 
quiry with  me.  In  my  late  commenced  correspondence  with 
Emelius,  this  was  the  question  upon  which  I  demanded  his  opi- 
nion :  he  has  not  yet  returned  an  answer  to  my  letter,  though 
from  his  expressions  at  the  meeting  at  Franklin's,  I  judge  he 
had  some  serious  intentions  of  answering  it.  The  carrying  into 
effect  this  scheme  of  a  society,  will  I  am  afraid  be  to  him  a  suf- 
ficient excuse  for  omitting  it.  I  now  intend  to  try  what  my  own 
unassisted  capacity  can  do  towards  classing  and  separating  the 
several  departments  of  knowledge.     However,  to  my  task. 

"  The  general,  and  I  believe  the  true  division  of  science,  is 
into  moral  and  physical.  The  object  of  moral  science  is  the 
mind,  the  object  of  physical,  matter  ;  this  is  sufficiently  plain. 
I  understand  the  distinction  between  matter  and  mind,  or  spirit 
(for  they  are  synonymous)  without  the  trouble  of  a  definition. 

*'  Mind  and  matter  are  the  two  grand  divisions  of  science, 
but  we  cannot  have  any  object  of  moral  science,  but  that  portion 
of  spirit  witliin  ourselves  ;  while  in  this  life  mind  perhaps  can 
never  be  considered  in  any  other  way  than  in  conjunction  with 
matter.  That  science  which  considers  mind  in  its  essence,  which 
considers  spirit  distinct  from,  and  as  much  as  possible  indepen-- 


19 

dant  of  matter,  is  I  think  called  metaphysics.     Is  there  not  a 
difference  between  the  consideration  of  the  mind  in  its  essence 
or  being,  and  the  consideration  of  the  mind,  as  it  acts  with  re- 
lation to  something  else,  just  as  we  consider  man  in  the  several 
lights  of  a  rational  creature,  and  as  a  member  of  society  ?  We 
know  that  our  minds  are  continually  employed  in  the  exercise 
of  apprehension,  reason,  and  will :  but  we  know  that  these  ope- 
rations  of  the  mind  are  employed  upon  things  outward  and 
foreign  to  itself.  When  we  view  it  in  these  operations,  I  think 
we  do  not  view  as  metaphysicians,  we  must  give  another  name 
to  the  science  ;  perhaps  it  is  logic.     Man  may  be  considered  in 
a  variety  of  Hghts;  the  distinction  between  physical  and  moral 
science  take  their  rise  in  him ;  he  is  a  creature  of  matter  and 
mind,  composed  in  newly  organized  matter ;  he  is  superior  to 
the  brutes  only  in  degree,  and  he  is  equally  with  them,  the  ob- 
ject of  physical  science  ;  but  in  mind  he  differs  from  them  ori- 
ginally and  in  kind.     He  is  therefore  the  only  subject  of  moral 
science  :    as  an  animal  he  is  the   subject  of  natural   history. 
What  is  anatomy  ?  Is  it  not  natural  history  ?  It  examines  his 
internal  structure  and  formation  :  what  is  this  but  natural  his- 
tory ?  all  animals  are  the  subjects  of  anatomy,  perhaps  all  sub- 
stances :  the  dissection  of  a  rabbit  and  the  resolution  of  a  me- 
tallic substance,  are  they  not  equally  anatomy,  only  the  instru- 
ment made  use  of  is  fire  in  one,  and  the  lancet  in  the  other  ? 
However,  chemistry  is  only  a  more  exact  and  thorough  anatomy. 
Chemistry  and  anatomy  therefore  are  nearly  allied,  their  object 
is  the  same,  their  difference  consists  only  in  the  different  nature 
of  the  things  on  which  they  operate,  and  they  are  both  ranked 
under  the  science  of  natural  history.      Man  as  an  animal  is  the 
subject  of  the  science  of  medicine,  which  is  nothing  more  than 
the  art  of  curing  diseases  incident  to  the  human  body.     But 
there  are  diseases  incident  to  the  mind  also  ;  is  the  cure  of  these 
the  province  of  the  physician,  when  the  mind  is  affected  by  the 
disorders  of  the  animal  system,   or  when  its  diseases  may  be 
cured,  by  application  of  external  remedies  ?   It  is  thus  the  pro- 
vince of  the   physician.     It  is  necessary  for  a  physician  to  be 
an  anatomist,  that   is,  the  natural  historian  of  man ;  because 
the  knowledge  of  his  interior  formations  may  lead  him  to  the 


Bource  or  cause  of  the  diseases  Incident  to  hinri.  It  may  be  a 
question  whether  the  experimental  mode  in  phA^sic,  that  is,  the 
theory  of  disease  drawn  from  anatomy,  is  equally  advantageous 
to  the  cause  of  true  science,  as  the  same  mode  in  the  other 
part  of  natural  philosophy.  But  I  am  not  physician  enough  to 
^now  whether  I  speak  properly. 

"  Man,  as  I  said  before,  as  an  animal,  is  the  object  of  medi- 
cine ;  but  there  are  other  animals  besides  ;  the  science  of  medi- 
cine therefore  is  not  confined  to  him  only.  But  why  is  the  cow 
doctor,  the  horse  doctor  considered  so  meanly  of  then  ?  1 ,  be- 
cause the  diseases  of  other  animals  are  less  numerous  and  com- 
plicated :  2,  because  the  life  or  health  of  a  brute  is  of  much 
less  importance  in  the  eye  of  man  than  the  life  or  health  of 
his  fellow  creature,  and  the  diseases  of  men  are  more  new  and 
difficult,  because  of  the  connection  between  his  mind  and  his 
body,  and  the  mutual  influence  they  have  upon  each  other. 

*'The  consideration  of  the  internal  structure  of  man,  with 
reference  to  the  internal  structure  of  other  animals,  or  vice 
versa,  is  called  comparative  anatomy. 

"  Man  possesses  five  senses  or  inlets  to  his  mind.  Of  these 
the  sight  Is  the  most  useful,  extensive  and  delicate  in  its  forma- 
tion. Optics  is  that  science  which  explains  the  theory  of  light 
and  colours,  and  describes  the  manner  in  which  outward  objects 
affect  the  sight.  The  science  of  the  occulist  consists  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  cure  of  the  diseases  incident  to  the  eye.  The 
importance  of  sight  to  men,  and  the  exquisite  organization  of 
that  matter  in  which  it  Is  centered,  demand  and  have  a  separate 
theory.  The  teeth  also,  though  none  of  the  senses,  from  their 
usefulness  in  mastication,  but  principally  from  the  addition, 
which  when  perfect,  they  are  supposed  to  contribute  to  the 
beauty  of  the  human  face,  employ,  though  undeservedly,  a  sepa- 
rate profession.  Man  may  be  considered  as  one  and  alone  ;  or 
he  may  be  considered  as  a  member  of  a  community,  and  con- 
nected with  others." 

At  the  first  meeting  of  the  society.  Brown,  who  had  been 
chosen  to  deliver  an  address  upon  the  objects  of  the  institution, 
Tead  the  following. 


21        <iLiMir 


"  Amidst  the  various  subjects  of  disquisition  which  naturally 
present  themselves  upon  this  occasion,  inquiries  into  the  ge- 
nius and  design  of  this  Institution  are  those,  from  which  most 
immediate  instruction  may  be  derived,  and  the  talents  of  the 
writer  most  beneficially  employed.  As  the  laws  and  constitution 
of  this  country  will  justly  claim  a  principal  share  of  every  good 
citizen's  attention,  so  it  is  also  incumbent  on  us,  who  are  mem- 
bers of  a  smaller  community,  to  acquaint  ourselves  with  the  na- 
ture and  reason  of  that  association  to  which  we  are  united.  But 
although  this  is  a  duty  from  which  none  of  us  can  suppose  him- 
self entirely  exempted,  it  more  peculiarly  belongs  to  him  who 
is  destined  to  begin  the  career  of  literary  improvement,  and 
to  enter  immediately  upon  that  theatre  which  to  others  still 
remains  in  distant  and  imperfect  prospect.  With  what  fear  or 
diffidence  he  prepares  to  discharge  the  duty  imposed  upon  him 
he  need  not  mention.  When  his  defects  in  style  or  sentiment 
are  perceived,  his  fellow  members  will  forgive  the  inexperi- 
ence of  the  writer,  and  some  apology  may  be  indulged  to  the 
circumstances  in  which  he  writes.  Great  will  he  esteem  the 
honour  if  he  is  permitted  to  appear  foremost  on  the  records  of 
this  society,  though  for  that  distinction  he  sacrifices  every  be- 
nefit to  be  derived  from  example  and  experience.  The  sub- 
ject he  has  chosen  will  throw  some  little  lustre  on  his  composi- 
tion, and  some  of  his  defects  may  reasonably  be  ascribed  to 
the  warmth  with  which  he  expatiates  in  a  field  so  congenial  with 
his  inclination. 

"  In  this  essay  I  shall  attempt  to  sketch  the  leading  features  of 
our  constitution,  and  to  unfold  the  most  obvious  relations  be- 
tween the  laws  and  those  whose  conduct  they  are  designed  to 
regulate ;  the  more  minute  and  imperceptible  lines  in  which  its 
specific  nature  consists  may  be  reserved  for  future  and  more  ac- 
curate investigation.  To  give  a  general  idea  of  the  spirit  of 
laws  as  they  are  peculiar  to  this  institution,  is  a  task  of  no 
small  labour  and  importance.  The  time  indeed  will  not  admit 
of  that  proper  and  complete  discussion  which  the  nature  of 
the  subject  requires.  This  society  is  in  its  infancy ;  the  vital 
principle  is  scarcely  roused  into  action.  At  a  more  advanced  pe- 
riod, when  its  operations  shall  have  gained  some  degree  of  sta- 


<■'   \  *•  ^^  io  22 

bility,  when  conjecture  is  tipened  into  fact,  and  when  the  views 
and  reasonings  of  mistaken  foresight  have  yielded  to  the  certain, 
and  more  obvious  conclusions  of  experience,  this  subject  will 
find  employment  for  abler  pens,  and  deservedly  receive  a  tho- 
rough investigation. 

"  Literary  improvement  is  certainly  the  object  which  every 
one  proposes  to  himself  in  becoming  a  member  of  this  society, 
however  uninformed  he  may  be  with  respect  to  the  manner  in 
which  his  talents  will  be  called  forth.  He  is  already  convinced 
that  his  mental  powers  only  are  the  subjects  of  intended  cultiva- 
tion, but  when  he  has  once  fixed  the  boundary  in  his  mind,  he 
is  apt  to  think  no  farther  division  is  necessary:  he  gives  his  im- 
agination full  liberty  to  range  without  controul  through  the  whole 
circle  of  human  knowledge,  in  the  belief  that  whatever  calls  for 
the  exertion  of  his  mental  faculties  is  already  within  his  reach, 
and  may  reasonably  be  appropriated  to  his  own  use.  He  con- 
fides in  propects  which  present  an  endless  gradation  of  im- 
provement. The  road  to  knowledge  is  open  before  him,  the 
prize  of  literary  excellence  is  displayed  in  his  sight,  and  person- 
al assiduity  and  attention  only  are  required  to  remove  every 
impediment  between  him  and  the  object  of  his  ambition.  In 
short  he  believes  it  impossible  to  form  a  wish  too  sanguine  for 
the  occasion.  That  such  are  really  the  expectations  of  some,  no 
one  can  doubt,  whose  own  feelings  are  an  evidence  of  the  fact 
with  respect  to  himself.  It  may  seem  impossible  in  those,  the 
poverty  of  whose  imagination  confines  them  to  limits  even  nar- 
rower than  those  of  matter  of  fact.  But  the  case  is  otherwise 
with  those  who  find  an  interest  in  yielding  to  the  persuasions  of 
fancy,  even  in  opposition  to  the  sober  dictates  of  their  judgment. 
Whether  the  hopes  of  such  be  in  truth  fallacious  and  extravagant, 
I  sliall  not  presume  to  determine.  I  will  not  even  deny  that 
this  society,  will  fully  answer  his  idea,  but  I  am  perfectly  convin- 
ced of  the  possibility  of  framing  a  system  which  shall  gratify 
<^very  propensity  to  enlarge  the  circle  of  his  faculties,  of  which 
the  human  mind  is  capal)le  ;  a  system  calculated  to  employ  at  once 
the  reason,  mcmorv,  and  imagination  of  man. 

"  Ap  idea  of  perfection  incompatible  with  the  present  state  of 


23 

things,  is  generally  the  object  of  contemplation  with  philoso- 
phers. In  the  bosom  of  retirement  and  leisure  we  are  apt  to  pour 
forth  a  visionary  beauty  and  proportion  upon  the  scenes  around 
us,  which  vanish  away  when  we  come  to  examine  them  more 
nearly,  and  to  try  them  by  the  unfailing  test  of  experience.  Hence 
the  faultless  pictures  of  manners  and  of  government  so  frequent 
in  their  writing ;  pictures,  which  it  is  acknowledged,  afford  con- 
spicuous proofs  of  goodness  of  heart,  and  vigour  of  intellect  in 
the  contriver;  but  it  is  denied  that  they  contribute  any  thing  to 
the  happiness  of  society.  This  in  general  may  be  true.  But  though 
I  am  sensible  that  dreams  of  absolute  perfection,  can  be  realized 
only  in  another  world  ;  that  plans  of  government  without  defect, 
and  men  whose  spirits  have  been  rendered  perfect,  can  appear 
only  in  a  future  and  unknown  stage  of  being  ;  yet  I  cannot  help 
thmking  but  that  success  in  every  pursuit  will  be  commensurate 
to  the  ideas  of  perfection  which  we  entertain  concerning  that  pur- 
suit.    When  we  set  before  our  eyes  an  object,  as  the  end  of  our 
endeavours,  however  exalted  and  far  beyond  our  reach,  and 
lend  our  exertions  solely  to  that  object,  our  continued  struggles 
will  at  length  raise  us  to  that  elevated  pitch  of  knowledge  or  of 
virtue,  in  which  the  imperfection  of  our  nature  is  capable  of  sup- 
porting us.  In  contemplating  the  designs  of  a  Raphael  or  Angelo, 
it  is  impossible  to  produce  a  picture  totally  devoid  of  grandeur  or 
of  grace.     An  attempt  to  fashion  according  to  an  imaginarv 
standard  in  our  own  minds,  the  habits  and  dispositions  of  men, 
when  their  faculties  have  attained  their  full  vigour,  and  when  edu- 
cation can  no  longer  have  any  influence  over  their  conduct ;  may 
meet  with  obstacles  not  to  be  surmounted,  but  by  a  being  of  su- 
perior power  and  capacity.     But  education  claims  an  unbounded 
dominion   over  the  separate  provinces  of  infancy  and  youth, 
whether  she  employs  precept  and  authority  as  the  instruments  of 
her  purpose,  or  eogages  the  passions  of  youth  on  her  side  by 
means  of  example  and  emulation,  she  is  able  to  instil  into  the 
unmformed  minds  of  her  pupils,  whatever  sentiment  or  dispo- 
sition she  pleases. 

"  Of  the  noblest  species  of  education,  an  institution  like  the 
present  will  furnish  a  complete  example.     We  may  justly  be  d^;* 


M 

nominated  pupils,  since  our  design  is  to  learn,  or  at  least  to  im- 
prove what  we  have  already  learned ;  but  we  are  pupils  to  whom 
the  pedantic  character  of  a  preceptor,  and  the  servile  forms  of 
scholastic  discipline  are  unknown.  Reason  is  the  authority  which 
exacts  our  obedience;  and  emulation  the  principle  that  promotes 
our  improvement.  On  this  subject  therefore  theory  can  scarce- 
ly be  exhausted.  Here  at  least  the  hand  can  execute  what  the 
head  is  able  to  contrive.  The  idea  of  a  perfect  commonwealth 
is  not  the  same  extravagant  thing  in  education  as  in  politics. 
The  settled  depravity  of  mankind,  will  never  yield  to  the  gentle 
admonitions  of  the  wise,  and  the  stubborn  and  inveterate  preju- 
dices of  the  vulgar,  will  be  always  hostile  to  the  kindly  influence 
of  good  government. 

*'  But  the  manners  of  youth  are  fresh  and  pliant,  their  devia- 
tions from  the  path  of  rectitude  and  duty  may  more  easily  be 
recalled,  and  it  is  by  no  means  difficult  to  accelerate  their  steps 
in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  Were  it  required  of  me  to  make 
the  experiment,  and  to  produce  a  system,  simple  in  its  construc- 
tion, but  calculated  to  answer  the  purposes  of  its  formation,  with 
the  utmost  precision  and  success  ;  I  should  demand  nothing  but 
that  the  circumstances  of  time,  and  place,  should  be  favourable 
to  my  design.  A  demand  which  by  no  means  implies  an  impos- 
sibility of  introducing  my  system  iiito  general  use.  No  formed 
design  is  always  consistentwith  the  present  appearances  of  things, 
and  little  credit  is  due  to  his  sagacity,  who  ushers  every  inven- 
tion into  light  at  the  moment  it  receives  a  form  in  his  own  con- 
ception. If  he  wishes  success  to  his  own  undertakings  he  must 
wait  the  proper  opportunity  to  disclose  them,  when  the  things 
around  him  wear  a  favourable  aspect,  and  are  prepared  to  smile 
upon  his  purposes.  Though  an  opportunity  may  not  at  present 
offer,  I  may  safely  trust  to  the  natural  course  of  events,  and  am 
under  no  necessity  of  impressing  laws  upon  matter,  or  on  mind 
different  from  those  by  which  they  now  exist. 

"  Such  are  my  sentiments  of  the  possible  excellence  of  literary 
association  among  youth.  For  I  must  confess  this  society  falls 
somewhat  short  of  that  perfect  plan  which  presents  itself  to  my 
imagination.  A  plan  for  which  I  cannot  help  contemplating  with 


25 

pleasure,  though  the  situation  of  myself  as  well  as  others  will 
not  suffer  me  to  indulge  a  hope  of  seeing  it  carried  into  effect. 
It  is  not  a  matter  of  serious  concern,  but  a  matter  of  rational 
amusement  only,  that  we  thus  associate  together.  Our  die  is 
already  cast,  the  path  which  his  steps  are  to  occupy  is  already 
pointed  out  to  each  of  us ;  we  are  soon  to  throw  aside  that  sub- 
ordinate character  in  which  we  have  hitherto  been  trained,  and  to 
step  forth  upon  the  theatre  of  life,  supported  only  by  our  own 
talents  and  address.  It  behoves  us  to  make  preparation  for  that 
awful  crisis  in  choosing  our  future  parts.  Due  caution  and  cir- 
cumspection should  undoubtedly  be  used.  But  when  our  choice 
is  made,  vigour  and  celerity  alone,  are  required  to  demand  the 
applause  of  our  fellow  citizens.  But  though  a  principal  share 
of  our  attention  is  already  appropriated,  we  must  not  suffer  one 
ofeject  to  engross  the  Whole  ;  various  accomplishments  are  requi- 
site to  make  any  single  character  complete  ;  whatever  his  profes- 
sion may  be  (I  speak  of  those  of  the  liberal  kind)  he  will  soon 
feel  the  absolute  necessity  of  devoting  some  of  his  time  to  the  stu- 
dy of  polite  literature.  If  the  native  beauty  of  the  liberal  arts  be 
found  unable  to  allure  him,  his  interest  alone  will  incite  him  to 
the  pursuit.  Thus  he  may  owe  the  most  valuable  of  intellectu- 
al treasure  to  motives  the  most  sordid  and  interested.  To  those, 
who  testify  a  relish  for  such  studies,  no  argument  is  necessary 
to  attach  them  still  closer  to  their  favourite  object ;  few  of  them 
indeed  can  resist  the  strong  attraction  which  they  feel  towards  it. 
Fondly  overcome  by  the  bewitching  charms  of  this  their  favour- 
ite pursuit,  they  become  regardless  of  the  voice  of  reason,  and 
are  totally  immersed  in  the  soothing  pleasures  of  intoxicated  fan- 
cy. The  enthusiasm  of  poetry  is  no  less  strong  and  violent  than 
that  of  religion ;  they  flow  in  separate  channels,  but  are  derived 
from  the  self  same  fountain.  Abhorring  equally  the  noise  and 
clamour  of  the  forum,  they  fly  to  solitude  and  silence,  to  mu- 
sing, and  to  contemplation,  frequenters  of  the  shade,  and  ac- 
customed to  Indulge  the  airy  flights  of  a  fancy  vigorous  from 
use,  and  bold  from  the  absence  of  constraint,  they  are  equally 
governed  by  imaginary  inspiration.  They  turn  their  ejes  from 
the  insipid  scene  without,  and  seek  a  gayer  prospect,  and  a  vi- 
sionary happiness  in  a  world  of  their  own  creation.  But  those 
who  are  superior  to  the  strong  attraction  of  their  genius,  whose 

4 


26 

imagination  is  awed  and  corrected  by  their  judgment,  will  still 
preserve  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  liberal  sciences  in 
their  passage  through  life. 

"The  whole  circle  of  human  knowledge  is  indeed  bound  togeth- 
er by  a  strong  and  indissoluble  chain  ;  they  mutually  receive  and 
impart  strength  and  lustre  The  several  and  distinct  sciences  which 
are  derived  from  the  reason,  the  memory,  and  the  imagination, 
are  as  intimately  connected  with  each  other,  as  those  powers  are 
in  the  human  mind.  The  traits  of  resemblance  for  example  be- 
tween moral  and  physical  science  are  so  many,  so  various,  and  so 
complex,  that  it  is  a  task  of  no  little  labour  and  ingenuity  pro- 
perly to  separate  them.  Philosophy  owes  its  precision  to  history, 
and  history  is  enlightened  by  the  beams  of  rational  philosophy. 
The  presence  of  the  muses  softens  the  severer  genius  of  the  law, 
and  without  their  kindly  influence,  even  the  study  of  nature  be- 
comes harsh  and  unpleusing.  The  pleasures  of  taste  on  the  con- 
trary, are  often  carried  to  a  vicious  extreme,  unless  corrected  by 
a  seasonable  mixture  of  philosophical  severity. 

"  The  connection  is  not  more  exquisite  between  the  spiritual 
and  material  worlds,  tlian  between  the  several  provinces  of  im- 
agination and  reason.  As  matter  separate  from  mind  would  be 
totally  devoid  of  life  and  motion,  so  reason  deprived  of  the  invi- 
gorating influence  of  the  fancy,  would  be  a  caput  mortuum,  to 
the  last  degree  lifeless  and  insipid. 

"  To  obviate  the  inconvenience  of  such  an  unnatural  separation, 
to  ornament  the  mind  as  well  as  to  improve  the  understanding, 
is,  I  think,  the  business  of  this  society.  With  this  view  we  have 
entitled  it  the  society  of  Belle  Lettres,  This  is  a  term  of  very 
peculiar  signification.  It  does  not  denote  any  specific  division 
of  the  sciences  logically  arranged  j  it  even  comprehends  science 
and  art,  within  the  same  circle.  It  has  been  generally  under- 
stood to  signify  a  combination  of  the  most  popular  studies,  and 
those  which  are  best  suited  to  the  free  and  easy  strain  of  conver- 
sation. If  this  definition  be  admitted  as  a  good  one,  fashion  alone 
must  be  admitted  as  the  standard  of  decision.  Diff'erent  parts  of 
the  world,  as  well  as  diflerent  ages  of  it,  may  entertain  different  no- 
tions concerning  the  particular  objects  of  study,  which  should 
be  ranked  under  this  denomination ;  one  people  may  be  totally 
absorbed  in  mathematical   inquiries,    and  the    abstrusest  spe- 


27 

dilation  in  that  science  may  become  the  theme  of  every  lite- 
rary circle.  In  another  country  he  is  the  politest  man,  and 
most  distinguished  of  the  respectable  band  of  the  literati,  who 
comes  into  the  company  of  the  learned  fraught  with  profoundest 
erudition.  The  standard  of  taste  is  with  them  the  dry  discri- 
minating spirit  of  the  metaphysician.  An  enormous  lexicon, 
or  tedious  commentary  upon  an  inconsiderable  classic,  is  placed 
upon  a  level  with  the  most  admired  production  of  genius. 
Among  a  third  people,  a  softer  genius  may  prevail,  captivated 
by  the  melody  of  sound,  and  the  mimic  creation  of  the  pencil. 
The  glory  of  a  Handel  or  a  Rubens,  will  be  the  sole  subject  of 
their  refined  conversation.  The  tribute  of  applause  and  admi- 
ration will  be  due  to  him,  who  best  unfolds  the  hidden  soul  of 
harmony,  or  transfers  nature  into  his  pictures  without  l;lemish  or 
defect.  So  great  a  div^ersity  of  tastes,  cannot  be  conceived  to  be 
impossible  ;  they  have  even  actually  appeared  at  different  periods 
in  the  same  nation.  But  a  moment's  reflection  will  convince  us, 
that  nothing  is  impossible  to  the  restless  caprice  of  fashion. 
Fashion  may  affix  what  stamp  she  pleases  to  the  term  of 
Belle  Lettres,  and  this  stamp  must  of  consequence  be  in  per- 
petual change.  But  it  is  needless  to  be  very  curious  in  defining 
the  exact  import  of  the  word.  Polite  learning  sometimes  under 
the  name  of  humanity,  and  sometimes  of  Belle  Lettres,  has  long 
been  the  subject  of  academical  education  in  the  universities  of 
Europe.  Its  nature  and  boundaries  therefore  must  have  been 
long  since  fixed,  and  determined  with  a  precision  sufficient*=for 
our  purpose.  According  to  my  own  observation,  and  in  the 
main  agreeably  to  the  method  adopted  in  a  celebrated  publica- 
tion* on  this  subject.  Belle  Lettres  may  be  generally  divided 
into  three  great  departments — grammar,  rhetoric,  and  poetry. 
"  By  grammar,  J  mean  not  the  prosody  of  a  verse,  or  the  reso- 
lution of  a  sentence,  but  an  extensive  science,  which  considers 
the  metaphysical  properties  and  the  mechanical  formation  of  lan- 
guage ;  a  science  whose  object  is  the  theoiy  of  speech,  which  de- 
scribes it  as  general  or  particular,  investigates  its  origin,  deduces 
its  history  and  progress,  and  delineates  its  structure,  in  all  the 
variety  of  forms  it  has  assumed  in  the  different  regions  of  the 

»  Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Belle  Lettres  by  Dr.  Blah-,  of  the  University 
«f  Edinburijh. 


kjeJ". 


28 

globe.  It  is  the  doctrine  of  signs,  and  its  importance  and  ex- 
tent is  evident  from  this,  that  it  divides  with  logic  one  third  part 
of  that  immense  field  of  speculation  in  which  the  understanding 
is  con\'ersant. 

"  The  provinces  of  this  extensive  empire  are  many  and  various. 
Amidst  so  boundless  a  variety,  objects  may  be  found  suited  to 
the  genius  and  capacity  of  every  one  ;  the  careless  or  the  delin- 
quent, the   profound  or  the  superficial  inquirer,  may  here  find 
employment   for  his    indolence,  activity,  dullness   or  sagacity. 
Should  he,  for  instance,  confine  his  researches  within  the  pale  of 
one  language,  even  this  comparativeh'  narrow  field  will  supply 
him  with  a  copious  fund  of  pleasing  information.     He  may  ex- 
amine its  etymology,  or  review  the  various  periods  of  its  his- 
tory.    He   may  trace  the  various  changes  it  has  undergone  to 
their  respective  causes,  determine  whether  they  have  been  pro- 
duced by  the  lapse  of  time,  the  confusion  of  events,  or  by  fo- 
reign colonization.     He  may  set  forth  the  variety  of  its  dialects, 
for  the  specific,  as  well  as  generic  difference  in  languages,  point 
out  the  difference   or  resemblance  between  them,   and  survey 
them,  accompanied  with  all  their  appendages  of  causes,  contrast 
and  consequence.     Is  the  language  of  its  poetry  distinct  from 
that  of  its  prose,  in  what  do  they  severally  consist  ?  Compare 
its  present  state  with  any  period  past  or  future,  and  thereby  dis- 
cover whether  it  be  yet  in  its  progress  towards  perfection,  or 
stationary,  or  in   its   decline.     These  inquiries  when  they   are 
confined  to  our  native  tongue,  are  no  less  useful  than  amusing. 
I  need  not  mention  the  respect  paid  to  the  study  of  their  own 
language  by  the  politest  nations  of  antiquity.     The  writings  of 
Quintillian  and  Tully,   bear  ample  testimony  to    the  fact.     In 
modern  times,  no  less  attention  has  Ijeen  paid  to  this  favourite 
branch  of  study.     Witness  the  societies  instituted  for  that  pur- 
pose in  France,  Italy,  and  Spain.     Besides  the  local  or  provin- 
cial   dialects  of  a    language,    another  variety    must  also   arise 
founded  upon  the  difference  in  manners  and  education  of  those 
who  speak  it.     This  distinction  can  only  take  place  in  a  living 
tongue  ;   in    such,  a  certain  elegance  of  phrase,  as  well  as  of 
manner,  is  the  criterion  of  politeness.     The  dialect  of  the  vul- 
gar, differs   as   essentially  from  the    mode  of  speaking  among 
men  of  letters,  as  the  style  of  the  poet  differs  from  that  of  the 


29 

philosopher.  The  structure  of  a  language  which  has  ceased 
to  be  spoken,  is  infinitely  more  uniform  and  regular  than  the 
diversified  dialects,  and  even  varied  pronunciation  of  a  living 
tongue.  Written  monuments  are  very  imperfect  vehicles  of 
speech ;  they  can  indeed  unfold  the  orthography  of  language 
with  great  strictness  and  accuracy ;  but  experience  will  teach  us, 
that  orthography  is  a  very  uncertain  guide  to  the  true  pronun- 
ciation of  a  tongue.  A  variety  of  dialects  often  procet-.ds  from 
a  difference  of  pronunciation,  though  the  same  orthography  be 
adhered  to  ;  and  differences  imperceptible  in  spelling  or  arrange- 
ment, are  rendered  obvious  and  remarkable  in  the  utterance. 
These  I  cannot  but  consider  as  strong  motives,  why  attention 
should  be  paid  to  the  study  of  our  own  language  in  preference 
to  that  of  any  other ;  I  may  therefore  recommend  it  as  a  sub- 
ject of  useful  and  ingenious  disquisition,  nearly  connected 
with  the  common  experience  of  youth,  and  allowing  always  an 
immediate  appeal  to  our  own  personal  judgment  and  sagacity. 

"  Hitherto  we  have  looked  no  farther  than  a  single  language, 
let  us  now  extend  our  view  to  an  assemblage  of  many.  Subjects 
of  inquiry  will  multiply  upon  us  in  proportion  to  the  number 
of  distinct  idioms  which  are  separately  or  relatively  consi- 
dered. Besides  the  consideration  just  mentioned,  their  genealo- 
gy, their  comparative  excellence,  their  mutual  dependence  and 
relations,  are  all  departments  in  the  immense  edifice  of  grammar 
worthy  of  the  nicest  scrutiny. 

"  Knowledge  may  be  considered  emblematically  as  a  vast  tem- 
ple ;  the  avenues  to  which  are  guarded  by  the  several  languages 
in  use  among  men.  Languages  may  be  valued  in  proportion  as 
the  avenues  over  which  they  preside  are  easy  in  their  entrance, 
and  expeditious  in  conducting  the  adventurer  to  the  prize  of 
which  he  is  in  quest.  Jt  may  be  worth  inquiring,  at  which  of  these 
imaginary  portals  may  we  gain  our  purpose  with  most  speed  and 
convenience.  Is  there  hitherto  any  thing  neglected  or  unknown, 
which  may  furnish  an  easier  passage  to  the  foot  of  the  altar  of 
science.  May  we  judge  from  the  grace  and  beauty  of  the  ar- 
chitecture, whether  the  gate  which  it  adorns  is  preferable  to 
another  more  rude  or  unembellished  ?  Or  (to  speak  without  a 
metaphor)  is  not  the  information  to  be  derived  from  the  know- 
ledge of  an  unknown  tongue,  alwaj's  proportionate  to  the  strength 


30 

and  beauty  of  its  idiom  ?  Imagination  revolts  at  the  dialects  of 
barbarians,  the  pov'erty  or  hardship  of  whose  sounds  suit  not 
with  the  soft  und  refined  utterance  of  a  civilized  people.  But 
cannot  reason  find  a  treasure  concealed  beneath  this  rude  and  un- 
finished curtain,  worth  the  labour  of  drawing  it  aside. 

"  But  let  him  still  enlarge  the  circle  of  his  studious  observation  ; 
let  him  step  from  particular  to  general  grammar.  Is  there  not 
any  thing  in  this  new  region  worthy  his  attention  r  Will  his  rea- 
son be  improved  or  his  fancy  gratified,  while  he  occupies  his  ta- 
lents with  this  new  object .'  The  smooth  and  level  path  which  he 
has  hidierto  traversed,  was  productive  of  little  uneasiness;  but 
that  in  which  he  is  now  about  to  enter,  presents  nothing  but  a 
rugged  prospect.  Grammar  thus  abstractedly  considered,  lies 
within  the  bounds  of  pure  metaphysics.  The  language  of  man  is 
the  intercourse  of  spirits  ;  it  is  not  the  feeble  and  involimtary 
respirations  of  pain  and  pleasure,  but  the  perfect  and  pathetic 
picture  of  every  fixed  or  transient  emotion  to  which  his  mind  is 
subject.  By  one  happy  faculty  is  man  capable  of  giving  form  to 
spirit,  and  of  rendering  his  soul  visible  to  man.  The  pictures 
which  words  exhibit  are  even  more  perfect  than  those  produced 
by  the  hands  of  nature.  Things  when  they  act  by  their  own 
powers,  act  upon  the  mind  according  to  laws  pre-established  by 
the  Deity,  in  the  inviolable  observance  of  which  consists  the 
pledge  of  their  existence.  But  when  we  would  transmit  our 
feelings  to  the  minds  of  others  by  means  of  words,  there  is 
submitted  to  our  choice  an  unlimited  variety  of  modes  of  doing 
it.  The  treasury  of  language  is  literally  inexhaustible :  it  will 
afford  sufficient  for  the  purposes  of  every  one.  Hence  the  study 
of  the  metaphysical  properties  of  language  has  been  ranked 
among  the  number  of  abstruser  sciences.  Into  this  recess,  the 
careless  or  superficial  inquirer  must  not  presume  to  intrude  ;  it 
is  sacred  to  philosophy  and  contemplation :  he  may  wander  in 
the  maze  of  poetical  expression,  or  ascend  the  summits  of  aspir- 
ing eloquence.  He  may  fix  the  unstable  edifice  of  language  on 
a  firmer  basis,  he  may  add  grace  and  dignity  to  its  present 
structure.  These  are  employments  suited  to  his  capacity,  they 
demand  not  the  toil  of  a  vigorous  intellect,  but  yield  to  the  feeble 
and  remitted  efforts  of  imagination. 


31 

"  But  I  have  too  long  Imposed  upon  the  patience  of  my  hear- 
ers ;  this  subject  is  extremely  diffuse,  and  though  I  profess  to 
consider  it  in  a  very  contracted  point  of  view,  it  will  furnish  mat- 
ter for  many  future  essays.  Style  and  composition  with  the 
propriety  of  the  mode  adopted  to  accelerate  our  improvement 
therein,  will  come  next  under  our  observation.  Eloquence  will 
then  be  considered  not  as  the  object  of  senseless  applause,  or  the 
topic  of  empty  declamation  ;  but  as  a  necessary  ingredient  in  the 
composition  of  those  characters  we  are  about  to  assume,  to  a 
certain  degree  of  which  this  society  will  furnish  the  means,  and 
every  member  may  improve  the  opportunity  of  attaining.  With 
some  reflections  upon  the  circumstances  which  constitute  the  pe- 
culiar excellence  of  this  institution,  we  shall  finish  a  picture 
possessing  the  requisite  boldness  and  dignity  in  the  design,  how- 
ever lame  or  imperfect  in  the  execvition." 

It  would  be  improper  as  we  have  commented  so  largely  on ' 
this  society,  to  pass  by  the  other  one  in  silence.  In  one  instance 
Charles  reported  the  debates  at  full  length,  and  were  it  not 
mingled  with  matters  of  a  personal  and  confidential  nature,  it 
would  be  desirable  to  give  publicity  to  this  record.  This  would 
however  lead  us  astray  from  biography,  and  involve  us  in  col- 
lateral matters  foreign  from  our  present  purpose.  To  give  the 
reader  some  conception  of  the  success  which  Charles  made  in 
his  legal  studies,  notwithstanding  the  perplexing  variety  of  his 
other  avocations,  we  will  extract  the  following  decisions,  which 
he  made  in  the  character  of  judge. 

CASE  I. 

*'  The  case  upon  which  our  decision  is  expected,  is  as  follows  : 
A.  advertises  a  reward  for  the  recovery  of  goods  lost :  B.  finds 
them  ;  can  B.  retain  those  goods,  until  the  reward  is  paid  ?  On 
the  one  hand  it  is  insisted  that  the  finder  may  detain  the  goods 
until  he  shall  receive  the  reward.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  main- 
tained that  by  so  doing,  the  finder  becomes  liable  to  an  action  of 
trover  and  conversion.  This  is  a  question  on  which  I  cannot  give 
my  opinion  without  much  doubt  and  hesitation.  The  case  in- 
deed very  frequently  occurs  to  common  experience ;  but  I  have 


32 

irot  discovered  that  it  has  ever  underwent  a  judicial  examination 
in  the  courts  of  law :  and  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  authori- 
ties cited  to  support  the  opinions  respectively  advanced,  are  con- 
nected with  our  present  subject  by  a  distant  and  imperfect  anal- 
ogy, rather  than  by  direct  implication  ;  that  they  are  calcula- 
ted to  puzzle  and  confuse,  rather  than  to  aid  and  confirm  the 
judgment. 

"That  the  finder  is  justified  in  detaining  the  goods  until  he  re- 
ceives the  reward  for  finding  them,  is  an  opinion  supported  by 
natural  equity,  if  not  by  positive  law,  and  extreinely  agreeable  to 
the  common  sense  of  mankind,  who  will  always  prefer  the  secu- 
rity for  the  owner's  compliance  with  the  contract  in  their  own 
hands,  to  the  dilatory  and  uncertain  remedy  of  the  law ;  which 
the  mean  and  interested  have  in  their  power  to  make  no  remedy 
at  all.  The  finder  may  be  intimidated  by  the  threats  of  the 
owner,  or  the  consciousness  of  his  inability  to  hold  them, 
against  what  he  supposes  to  be  the  law  ;  he  will  deliver  them  up 
on  demand,  but  l)v  so  doing  he  will  justlj-  incur  the  censure  of 
egregious  follv,  from  those  Avho  are  likely  ever  to  be  in  the  same 
predicament.  On  every  subject  of  dispute  where  the  natural 
equity  of  the  thing  is  in  question,  the  common  and  uniform  sen- 
timent of  mankind  is  a  standard  less  liable  to  confusion  and 
uncertainty  than  any  other.  I  need  not  remark  that  every  man 
in  the  situation  of  B.  the  finder  of  these  goods,  would  act  in  the 
manner  supposed  in  the  present  case,  and  think  himself  justi- 
fied in  so  doing  by  every  principle  of  reason  and  natural  equit\-. 
In  this  persuasion  as  an  individual  I  would  very  fairly  acquiesce  : 
and  the  singularity  of  this  case  with  respect  to  those  hitherto 
controverted  in  the  courts  of  law,  would  I  presume  justify  a 
similar  decision  in  the  quality  of  judge.  Besides  adjudged  ca- 
ses, the  advocates  for  this  opinion,  that  the  owner  is  entitled  to 
an  action  of  trover,  I  have  had  recourse  to  the  descriptions 
given  of  this  action  in  the  books  of  law  ;*  these  declare  in  the 
most  explicit  terms,  that  this  action  lies  against  him  who  has  the 
goods  of  another  in  possession,  and  converts  them  to  his  own 
use.  Now  as  it  is  not  the  trover  that  is  the  means  by  which 
the  defendant  came  into  possession,  but  the  subsequent  conver- 

*  3(1  Black.  152.   "SVoocl's  lusti.  539.   B:ic.  Ab.  tit.  ti-over.  See. 


35 

iion  that  constitute  the  injury  for  which  the  remedy  is  given ; 
it  is  clear  that  sufficient  evidence  must  be  brought  to  prove  such 
conversion  in  the  defendant,  or  the  plaintiff's  action  is  lost.  But 
it  is  said,  a  demand  made,  and  a  subsequent  refusal,  is  sufficient 
evidence  of  a  conversion.  This  case  supposes  a  demand  made 
and  a  subsequent  refusal ;  what  hinders  then  that  the  owner 
should  have  his  action  against  the  finder. 

*'  I  am  of  opinion  that  the  demand  and  refusal  here  made,  are 
not  sufficient  evid  ence  of  a  conversion  :  it  is  indeed  a  doctrine 
generally  held,  that  demand  and  refusal  are  sufficient  evidence 
of  conversion.  But  it  is  by  no  means  the  intention  of  the  law, 
that  this  rule  should  prevail  in  all  cases  indiscriminately.  In  the 
same  page  wherein  Sir  William  Blackstone  tells  us  that  the  law 
will  deem  the  finder's  refusal  as  a  conversion  :  he  also  tells  us, 
that  to  support  the  action  a  conversion  must  be  fully  proved. 
How  many  circumstances  might  the  dullest  fancy  suggest,  suf- 
ficient to  justifv  a  refusal,  notwithstanding  the  demand  of  the 
owner.  It  is  expressly  said,*  that  though  a  demand  and  a  de- 
nial may  be  evidence  of  a  conversion,  yet  that  of  itself  it  is  not 
a  conversion.  Indeed  in  those  cases  where  the  doctrine  is  laid 
down  in  the  most  positive  and  unlimited  manner,  we  may  as- 
sent to  the  justice  of  the  reasoning  upon  which  it  is  founded  ; 
and  at  the  same  time  consider  it  as  totally  unapplicable  to  the 
present  case.  A  rule  designed  to  be  general  and  to  comprehend 
a  great  varietv  of  cases,  cannot  be  applied  in  its  full  extent  to 
everv  particular  subject.  That  the  reasonings  in  1  Viner.  Abr. 
241,  where  this  suliject  is  discussed  pretty  largely,  were  intend- 
ed to  be  confined  to  such  cases  wherein  the  refusal  of  the  find* 
er  is  evidentlv  suggested  bv  sinister  views,  appears  both  from  a 
case  which  precedes  it  in  the  same  page,  and  from  the  words 
subjoined  to  the  case  itself,  viz.  but  if  it  be  found  specially,  it 
shall  not  be  adjudged  a  conversion.  The  meaning  of  which  I 
apprehend  is  this  ;  that  M'here  certain  circumstances  appear  of 
a  palliating  nature,  and  which  lend  to  show  that  the  detention 
of  the  goods  proceeded  from  innocent,  though  perhaps  mista. 
ken  notions  of  right  ;  in  short  whenever  it  appears  that  the  de- 
fendant's intention  was  not  to  convert  those,  a  conversion  shall 
*  1  Viner.  Abr.  24. 
6  • 


34 

not  be  presumed.  The  opinion  of  Holt,  Chief  Justice,  in  2 
Salk.  654,  p.  2,  is  express,  that  pei-sons  saving  goods  which  had 
been  cast  away,  might  detain  them  until  paid  for  their  pains. 

"  I  am  therefore  clearly  of  opinion,  that  an  action  ol  trov  er 
and  conversion  M'ill  not  lie  against  the  finder  of  these  goods. 
Of  an  action  of  detinue,  though  now  generally  disused,  the 
owner  may  perhaps  avail,  as  the  injury  nlleged  to  be  done  to 
the  plaintiff  consists  in  the  detaining,  and  not  the  original  tak- 
ing ;  although  the  conformity  of  the  present  case  to  the  descrip- 
tion of  detinue  to  be  found  in  Blackstone  may  very  well  he 
doubted  since  it  is  not  the  mere  detainure  which  entitles  the 
plaintiff  to  this  remedy.  But  at  all  events,  I  consider  the  pub- 
lic notification  of  the  owner's  intention  to  reward  the  ftndt;r  ol 
his  goods,  as  an  express  assumpsit,  by  which  the  fiuder  is  en- 
titled to  an  action  on  the  case." 

CASE  2. 

"  A  woman  upon  the  supposition  of  her  husband's  death,  acts, 
in  the  capacity  of  a  single  woman  ;  purchases  lands  in  her  own 
name,  devises  them  and  dies  ;  after  whose  death  the  husband 
contrary  to  expectation,  proves  to  be  still  living,  and  returns. 
The  question  naturally  arising  upon  these  points  is,  whether  the 
devise,  and  of  consequence  all  other  acts  committed  during  her 
supposed  widowhood,  are  good  in  law.  A  question,  our  deci- 
sion upon  which  must  be  foimded  either  upon  statute  or  prece- 
dent, cannot  but  be  productive  of  much  doubt  and  uncertainty, 
when  it  is  found  deficient  in  both  these  respects.  The  statute 
of  wills,  where  the  persons  disabled  to  devise  are  enumerated, 
is  as  follows  :  and  it  is  furt'aer  deelared  and  enaeted  by  law 
that  wills  and  testaments  made  of  any  man's  lands,  &c.  by  any 
woman  covert,  or  person  within  the  age  of  twenty-one  years, 
idiot,  &c.  shall  not  be  taken  to  be  good,  and  effectual  in  the  law." 
This  statute  wherein  the  disability  of  the  woman  to  make  a  de- 
vise, is  particularly  laid  down,  Avill  appear  less  satisfactory  when 
we  consider  that  the  very  implication  our  natural  reason  would 
prompt  us  to  make  upon  the  words  of  the  statutes,  will  savour 
of  rashness,  unless  sanctioned  by  indisputable  authority.  That 
such  indispensible  authority  is  wanting,  I  may  very  safely  affirm. 
The  conduct  of  the  gentlemen  respectively  upon  this  question 


sufficiently  evince  it;  neither  party  having  produced  any  ad- 
judged case,  wherein  a  woman  in  those  particular  circumstances 
is  positively  declared  to  be,  or  not  to  be  within  the  meaning  of 
the  statute.  On  the  one  side  the  gendemen  have  chosen  to  ad- 
here principally  to  the  precise  letter  of  the  statute,  and  have  at- 
tempted to  prove  from  a  variety  of  arguments,  the  impropriety 
of  indulging  fanciful  conjecture  on  the  plainest  cases,  and  of 
framing  narrow  constructions  upon  words  whose  meaning  are 
general  and  obvious.  On  the  other  side  the  reason  of  the  thing 
has  been  principally  called  in  question,  and  the  liberty  of  fram- 
ing constructions  which  accord  rather  with  reason  than  with  law, 
been  strenuously  supported.  All  our  reasonings  upon  this  sub- 
ject must  be  ultimately  founded  upon  the  statute  :  but  in  the  ap- 
plication of  the  general  rules  there  laid  down  to  particular  cases, 
a  judgment  must  be  directed  by  certain  laws  of  construction, 
universally  laid  down  and  established.  If  his  decision  be  made 
conformably  to  these  rules,  it  matters  not  whether  his  interpreta- 
tions be  sanctioned  or  not  by  positive  authority  ;  if  his  opinion 
be  drawn  from  any  topic  of  construction  allowed  by  the  law,  it 
is  of  no  consequence  that  this  topic  has  never  been  employed  by 
a  predecessor  in  office  for  the  same  purpose.  "  A  court  of  law, 
says  Sir  William  Blackstone,  as  well  as  a  court  of  equity,  deter- 
mines according  to  the  spirit  of  the  rule,  and  not  according  to 
the  strictness  of  the  letter."  Both  for  instance  ai'e  equally  bound, 
and  equally  profess  to  interpret  statutes  according  to  the  true 
intent  of  the  legislature.  -If  this  liberty  of  interpretation  might 
therefore  be  allowed  us  on  this  occasion,  I  should  not  hesitate  to 
pronounce  this  case  out  of  the  equity,  though  within  the  \vords  of 
the  act.  But  we  have  been  repeatedly  told  that  the  words  of  the 
statute  should  have  their  full  and  unlimited  effect  In  every  case 
not  hitherto  excepted  by  the  courts.  Those  who  have  held  forth 
this  opinion  with  so  much  vehemence,  do  not  reflect  that  in  so 
doing  they  call  in  question  the  legality  of  those  very  exceptions : 
since  those  however  agreeable  to  the  true  sense,  and  soiuid  in- 
terpretation of  the  rule,  had  not  the  sanction  of  any  prior  deter- 
mination. I  am  well  aware  also,  that  the  natural  injustice  of  a 
decision  in  the  nt '^"Uive,  has  been  as  confidently  asserted,  as  its 
supposed  legal  impropriety.  But  notwithstanding  such  asser- 
tions, the  dangerous  consequences  of  a  contrary  determination 


36 

to  the  security  of  private  property,  and  the  rights  of  individuals, 
appear  to  me  in  the  strongest  light ;  and  must  appear  to  every 
rational  and  unprejudiced  inquirer. 

**  But  this  it  is  not  my  design  to  prove  ;  to  most  I  trust  it  is 
already  evident.  It  is  sufficient  that  I  have  shown  the  proprie- 
ty of  acting  independent  of  any  precise  authority  ;  or  even  in 
contradiction  to  it,  when  authorised  by  the  known  and  establish- 
ed rules  of  construction.  By  these  rules  therefore,  as  far  as  I 
have  been  able  to  discover  the  intentions  of  the  legislature  in 
making  this  act,  I  am  clearly  of  opinion  that  they  did  not  intend 
to  include  a  woman  in  those  particular  circumstances,  within 
the  general  rule.  I  am  also  of  opinion  that  among  those  cases 
wherein  a  married  woman  has  been  declared  to  be  without  the 
meaning  of  the  statute,  and  adjudged  by  the  particular  excep- 
tions to  this  rule,  otherwise  general,  none  can  be  found  altogether 
similar  to  the  case  under  consideration." 

CASE    3. 

**  A  merchant  in  England  consigns  goods  to  a  merchant  in 
America,  he  afterwards  draws  bills  of  exchange  which  are  en- 
dorsed by  a  third  person,  he  then  becomes  bankrupt.  But  prior 
to  his  bankruptcy  he  assigns  the  goods  in  America  to  another  in 
England  :  the  goods  in  America  are  attached  by  the  endorser, 
as  the  property  of  the  drawer.  We  are  to  pronounce  upon  the 
validity  of  the  attachment. 

*'  I  shall  make  no  observations  upon  the  propriety  of  the  cir- 
cumstances here  alledged,  what  measure  of  probability  they  pos- 
sess, or  whether  viewed  in  a  real  or  fictitious  light,  any  ques- 
tion can  arise  from  them  worthy  of  serious  discussion.  It  is  I 
own  in  general,  incumbent  upon  those  who  decide  to  assign  the 
reasons  of  their  decision.  But  every  general  rule  is  liable  to 
some  exceptions.  That  the  present  case  may  reasonably  be  deem- 
ed an  exception,  is  the  firm  persuasion  of  him  whose  duty  it  is 
to  decide  concerning  it.  If  such  is  my  opinion,  it  matters  not 
what  the  sentiments  of  others  xnay  be.  The  peculiar  right  of  de- 
cision in  such  cases  is  a  privilege  annexed  to  my  station,  which 
notwithstanding  the  endeavours  of  the  selfish  and  opinionated, 
I  will  not  suffer  to  be  weakened  by  a  formal  appeal  to  the 
common  sense  of  othf  rs  ;   I   am  content  to  wave    the  privilege 


37 

of  mv  seat  no  otherwise  than  by  abdicating  the  seat  itseli ;  and 
though  in  opposition  to  violence  and  clamour,  I  am  tenacious 
of  my  right  as  judge,  yet  as  a  member  I  am  content  to  yield 
to  an  opinion,  which  however  unwarrantably  urged,  is  avow- 
ed by  a  majority  of  my  fellow  members.  Thus  much  I  think 
it  my  duty  publicly  to  declare,  in  order  to  ascertain  the  privilege 
annexed  by  law,  as  well  as  reasons,  to  the  office  of  judge  of  this 
society;  and  by  explainingthe reason,  why  I  have  dispensed  with 
my  privilege  on  this  occasion,  thereby  to  remove  the  danger  of 
its  growing  into  a  precedent.  For  I  am  well  aware  tliathad  I  not 
made  this  public  declaration,  length  of  time  and  the  confusion  of 
events  would  have  rendered  my  conduct  in  this!particular,  an  in- 
disputable evidence  of  what  is  or  is  not  a  privilege  :  but  I  even 
blame  myself  for  the  sacrifice  I  have  already  made,  and  as  long 
as  I  have  the  honour  to  preside  in  this  chair,  will  be  cautious 
again  of  furnishing  the  like  pernicious  example  to  a  predecessor, 
of  sacrificing  the  dignity  of  his  office  to  the  unwarrantable  views 
of  a  i"aciious  and  imperious  member.  Part}-  and  division  in  this 
society  shall  in  future  meet  with  my  discouragement,  and  I  will 
no  longer  countenance  the  exertions  of  one  who  is  perpetually 
usurping  an  undue  authority  over  those  who  are  his  equals  by 
membership,  as  well  as  those  whom  their  station  has  for  a  time 
rendered  his  superiors.  If  the  question  is  void  of  doubt  or  bar- 
ren of  argument  with  respect  to  the  advocates,  it  is  certainly  so 
with  respect  to  the  judge.  With  the  same  ease  and  facility 
therefore,  with  Avhich  the  case  before  us  was  argued,  I  deter- 
mine that  the  attachment  cannot  be  mainiained." 

C^Sii*  4. 

Is  falsehood  necessary  to  constitute  a  libel  against  the  chief 
magistrate  of  a  state  ?  The  rules  of  law,  in  whatever  upon  exami- 
nation they  may  be  found  to  consist,  will  not  apply  with  entire 
certainty  and  precision  to  this  question  j  unless  it  were  first  de- 
termined whether  the  libeller  be  prosecuted  by  way  of  indictment 
<jr  information  at  the  suit  of  the  tominonwealth,  or  merel)'  in  a 
civil  action.  The  stati<jn  or  dignity  of  either  the  oifendcd  or  of- 
fending party,  does  not  necessarily  determine  the  mode  in  which 
his  offence  becomes  cogniziblc  by  the  courts  of  justice.  The 
libeller  has  commi'tted  a  double  in-tn-v.      He  has  opened  the  nar- 


$,      38 

rative,  and  endangered  the  reputation  oi  a  private  citizen,  and 
hazarded  a  violation  of  the  public  peace.  In  the  first  place,  the 
plaintiff  shall  receive  a  recompense  in  damages,  if  the  charge 
brought  against  him  be  false  ;  but  if  the  defendant  be  able  to  sup- 
port his  assertions  by  matter  of  fact,  if  the  libel  contain  nothing 
but  what  IS  strictly  agreeable  to  truth,  he  may  indeed  have 
incurred,  "  damnum,"  but  this  "  damnum  absque  injuria"  for 
which  he  is  not  entitled  to  any  action.  In  the  second  place  he  is 
guilty  of  a  misdemeanour,  and  is  thereupon  liable  to  the  more 
solemn  process  of  indictment.  He  is  in  some  measure  looked 
upon  in  the  light  of  a  criminal,  and  in  this  character  will  not  be 
permitted  to  justify,  but  only  to  deny  the  fact.  His  detcstablt;  ma- 
lice in  uttering  a  falsehood,  or  his  bold  integrity  in  publishing 
the  truth,  will  certainly  in  all  cases  colour  his  oiTence  witii  a 
greater  or  less  degree  of  enormity.  But  the  malice  and  falsehood 
of  an  unprovoked  attack  upon  the  character  of  a  ftilow  citizen, 
may  prompt  the  dispenser  of  justice  to  severer  vengeance;  and 
excite  him  to  denounce  an  heavier  and  more  adequate  punish- 
ment against  the  ofiender;  yet  the  truth  or  justice  ot  his  animad- 
versions, or  a  universal  assent  to  their  propriety  will  not  heal 
the  wound,  which  the  peace  and  good  order  of  society  have 
tlfereby  received.  My  opinion  is  founded  upon  several  unde- 
niable authorities,  5  report,  125,  Moor  627  :  11  Modern  99-4: 
Black.  Commen.  150.  Some  of  these  cases  are  posterior  in  point 
of  time  to  others,  but  they  are  all  equally  decisive.  An  objection 
has  been  made,  that  these  are  the  decrees  of  the  court  of  Star 
Chamber.  This  objection  if  in  reality  it  possess  any  weight, 
can  affect  only  a  few  of  these,  and  can  by  no  means  invalidate 
the  whole.  It  may  however  be  necessary  to  remark  that  the 
court  of  Star  Chamber  was  a  court  of  record  of  high  antiquity, 
and  long  duration.  That  the  justice  or  validity  of  its  proceed- 
ings were  not  called  in  question,  nor  even  suspected,  until  a  long 
period  had  elapsed  after  this  determination  was  made;  even  then 
the  enormities  of  which  it  was  guilty  respected  rather  the  impo- 
sition of  penalties,  and  the  rigour  of  punishment,  than  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  laws.  In  proportion  as  it  drew  nearer  the  period 
of  its  dissolution,  its  edicts  became  excessively  harsh  and  severe. 
Instead  of  watching  over  the  liberties  of  the  people,  and  guard- 
ing carefully  against  the  encroachments  of  the  king,  it  became 


39 

the  champion  of  the  royal  prerogative,  and  the  most  audacious 
asserter  of  the  antiquated  rights  of  the  crown.  No  wonder 
then  that  its  minister  became  arbitrary  and  tyrannical,  and 
its  exactions  intolerable  to  the  people.  But  this  decision  was 
the  fruit  of  earlier  times,  and  of  a  milder  policy.  It  is  exactly  con- 
sonant to  law  and  to  equity  ;  but  independent  of  this  and  of  eve- 
ry other  consideration,  it  is  sufficient  evidence  of  its  authority, 
that  it  was  recorded  by  lord  Hobart  and  Sir  Edward  Coke,  and 
has  since  been  quoted  and  confirmed  by  Sir  William  Blackstone. 
"  Its  contradiction  to  the  principles  of  equity  and  the  max- 
ims of  a  liberal  policy,  are  equally  iil-founded  and  unreason- 
able. An  idea  of  necessity  must  ever  mingle  with  any  ra- 
tipn:d  conception  we  entertain  of  justice;  for  by  this  will  many 
circuivibuiuces  be  justified  in  the  administration  of  laws,  whether 
of  human  or  divine  original,  otherwise  inreconcilable  to  the 
common  standard  of  equity  which  every  man  believes  himself 
entitled  to  erect  in  his  own  imagination.  The  liberty  of  up- 
braiding another  with  his  crimes,  and  of  exposing  him  to  the  ri- 
dicule and  detestation  of  his  fellow,  citizens,  is  always  consider- 
ed as  imposing  a  powerful  restraint  upon  his  vicious  inclina- 
tions. That  the  unlimited  use  of  a  remedy  so  fatal  to  the  inter- 
ests of  vice,  so  simple  and  efficacious  in  preventing  the  growth 
of  corruption  or  checking  its  contagious  progress,  in  circum- 
scribing the  views,  and  defeating  the  pernicious  efforts  of  a 
restless  and  depraved  ambition,  should  be  prohibited  by  public 
authority,  will  undoubtedly  excite  the  surprise  and  undissembled 
indignation  of  the  honest  but  ill  informed  mind.  But  as  soon  as 
he  extends  his  views  beyond  the  evil  and  convenience  of  a  sin- 
gle individual,  and  surveys  the  enlarged  prospect  of  the  whole  , 
community,  with  its  separate  company  of  rights,  necessities  and 
evils ;  when  he  withdraws  his  eye  from  the  contemplation  of 
the  present  and  imperfect  advantage,  and  pierces  into  future 
and  more  remote  contingencies,  he  will  quietly  suppress  his 
murmurs  and  rejoicing  in  himself,  acknowledge  the  admirable 
wisdom  of  the  law  in  thus  securing  the  bonds  of  government, 
the  harmony  of  society,  from  the  baneful  influence  of  secret 
malignity  and  open  revenge." 


40 

This  rainiic  pructlce  of  the  law  cithT  as  pleader  or  judge, 
was  the  only  practice  of  the  science  W'hich  Charles  Avas  doom- 
ed to  undertake.  As  the  time  approached  which  rendered  it 
necessary  for  him  to  pass  from  the  office  of  his  master  to  one 
of  his  ov/n,  to  consider  real  instead  of  fictitious  cases,  and 
minpjle  in  real  debate  as  the  champion  of  the  really  oppressed, 
the  mind  of  Brown  shrunk  from  the  scenes  he  saw  prej)aring 
for  him,  and  conceived  an  antipathy  to  the  profession  which  hf 
had  voluntarily;:  hosen,  which  neither  the  persuasions  and  argu- 
ments of  his  friends,  nor  his  OM'n  sense  of  duty  were  sufficient 
to  cvercome. 

Of  the  nrimbcrs  vho  are  educated  for  the  profession  of  the 
lav/  very  many  in  this  country  turn  aside  to  some  other  pursuit, 
which  appears  to  them  more  profitalile  or  less  arduous.  Many 
who  have  dissi;KUed  that  time  in  idleness  or  licentious  plea- 
sures which  should  have  been  devoted  to  study,  shrink  from 
the  practice  oT  their  intended  profession  from  a  consciousness 
of  igno  ■  M'ct ,  and  a  reluctance  to  encounter  the  laborious  appli- 
cat  on  known  to  be  necessary.  But  none  of  these  causes  for 
reiin  uishing  a  chosen  profession  will  apply  to  Charles  Brock- 
den  Brown.  The  acquisition  of  wealth  by  another  pursuit  was 
not  his  inJucemcnt.  Riches  were  not  objects  of  desire  with 
hin^i  at  this  period  of  his  life,  and  by  relinquishing  his  pros- 
pects oi  emo  ument  lVon\  his  profession,  he  threw  himself  as  a 
helpless  d'pcndant  upon  his  relatives.  The  fear  of  encounter- 
ing arduous  study  did  not  deter  him.  The  labour  of  thought 
and  investigation,  or  of  the  ap]:)lication  of  the  pen,  had  no  ter- 
rors for  him.  Ever\-  sj)ccies  of  riotous  or  licentious  pleasure 
vv-as  his  abhon-'mcc.  I'or  the  cause  of  that  bitter  regret  and  dis- 
appointment which  he  inflicted  upon  his  family,  we  must  look 
to  some  other  source  ;  and  in  the  rhapsodist  already  quoted,  we 
find  it.  He  had  formed  a  world  of  his  own  in  which  he  delight- 
ed to  dwell,  and  with  whose  inhabitants  he  was  habituated  to 
commune  to  the  exclusion  of  the  dull  or  sordid  beings  of  real 
life.  The  conversation  which  he  heard  passing  among  his  fel- 
low beings  relative  to  those  objects  which  constituted  the 
sources  of  their  jo}s  and  sorrows,  appeared  "  frivolous  chat," 
or,  as  doubtless  it  often  was,  the  offspring  of  folly,  ignorance, 
and  cupidity.  Society  was  to  him  solitude,  and  in  solitude  he 


41 

found  delightful  converse.  It  was  this  shrinking  from  society ; 
this  solitude  ;  this  wrong  estimate  of  the  views,  motives  and 
characters  of  mankind,  which  wrought  so  powerfully  upon  the 
mind  of  Browp,  as  to  make  him  turn  aside  from  the  obvi- 
ous path  which  led  to  competence,  honour  and  self-approba- 
tion. 

Charles  on  this  occasion  persuaded  himself  that  he  acted 
rightly,  or  he  would  not  so  have  acted.  Yet  this  conviction 
being  grounded  on  error,  like  all  erroneous  opinions,  was  sub- 
ject to  doubts  and  misgivings,  which  preyed  upon  his  happiness 
and  undermined  his  health.  He  had  three  brothers  older  than 
himself,  all  actively  engaged  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness  and 
fortune  according  to  the  usual  fashion  of  the  world ;  of  these, 
and  of  his  aged  parents,  Charles  was  the  distinguished  favour- 
ite ;  he  was  justly  looked  upon  as  the  most  highly  gifted  mem- 
ber of  the  family,  and  as  destined  for  their  happiness  and  honour  j 
his  abandonment  of  ihe  path  chosen  for  him,  was  to  them  a 
serious  disappointment  and  affliction,  and  this  to  Charles,  who 
loved  them  with  the  purest  fraternal  and  filial  affection,  was  a 
cause  of  sorrow  and  unutterable  regret. 

To  support  himself  against  the  persuasions  and  arguments 
of  his  friends,  and  against  the  suggestions  of  his  own  better 
judgment,  he  resorted  to  all  the  sophisms  and  paradoxes  with 
which  ignorance  and  ingenious  prejudice  had  assailed  the  sci- 
ence or  the  practice  of  the  law.  He  professed  that  he  could  not 
reconcile  it  with  his  ideas  of  morality  to  become  indiscriminate- 
ly the  defender  of  right  or  wrong  ;  thereby  intimating,  if  not 
asserting,  that  a  man  must,  in  the  practice  of  the  law,  not  only 
deviate  from  morality,  but  become  the  champion  of  injustice. 
He  would  demand,  what  must  be  the  feelings  of  a  lawyer  if  he 
had  become  an  auxiliary  in  the  cause  of  wrong  and  ra^oine  ?  If 
the  widow  and  the  orphan  were  thus  by  a  legal  robbery  depriv- 
ed of  their  just  and  righteous  claims  through  the  superior  arti- 
fice or  eloquence  of  the  advocate,  was  he  not  as  criminal  as 
the  man  who  committed  such  felony  without  the  sanction  of  a 
court  of  justice,  and  for  which  the  same  court  would  pronounce 
the  severest  punishment  ?  He  endeavoured  to  persuade  himself 

ft  * 


42 

and  his  hearers,  that  unless  a  lawyer  could  reconcile  his  mind 
to  the  practice  of  all  this  iniquity,  there  was  little  prospect  of 
his  succeeding  in  his  profession,  and  of  course  that  the  acqui- 
sition of  fame  and  fortune  were  only  to  be  considered  as  proofs 
of  the  wrongs  done,  and  the  miseries  inflicted  upon  his  fellow 
men. 

The  friends  of  Brown  did  not  easily  relinquish  the  object  of 
their  wishes,  or  cease  to  urge  arguments  founded  in  truth,  with 
all  the  eloquence  of  thorough  conviction.  They  represented  to 
him  that  men  of  irreproachable  characters,  who  stood  in  the 
front  ranks  of  honour,  had  acquired  all  their  celebrity  at  the 
bar.  His  answer  was,  that  the  opinion  of  the  world  was  al- 
ways equivocal,  sometimes  suspicious,  and  often  beyond  all 
question  wrong.  The  favourable  regards  of  the  world  were  con- 
ferred indiscriminately  on  virtue  or  vice,  innocence  or  guilt,  as 
all  history  evinces.  Would  this,  or  did  it  ever  in  a  single  soli- 
tary instance  counterbalance  the  remorse  of  their  own  consci- 
ences when  such  good  opinions  were  paid  for  services  which 
thev  never  did,  or  to  merit  which  they  had  no  pretensions  ? 
Was  it  not  rather  the  severest  of  all  satires,  when  we  were  ap- 
plauded for  virtues  which  Ave  never  possessed,  and  as  un- 
just as  it  would  be  to  violate  a  neighbour's  property  and  to 
claim  it  as  our  own  ?  Did  not  the  evil  extend  even  further  than 
this,  and  was  it  not  productive  of  more  moral  injury  by  appro- 
priating the  rewards  of  virtue,  the  good  opinion  of  the  world, 
to  vice,  and  thus  make  a  common  property  of  what  ought  to 
belong  exclusively  to  one,  and  confound  all  distinctions  between 
right  and  wrong  ?  In  the  present  case  he  denied  the  validity  of 
the  evidence  produced,  and  contended  that  whether  these  men 
were  justly  entitled  to  such  celebrity  could  only  be  known  by 
themselves.  Their  motives  to  conceal  their  real  characters 
from  the  world  were  obvious  and  palpable,  and  if  they  were 
monopolizers  of  the  fame  of  better  and  more  deserving  men, 
this  Avas  of  itself  an  argument  why  he  should  not  add  another 
name  to  their  list.  The  universality  of  such  an  evil  might  be 
a  consideration  to  reform  such  abuses  by  stronger  and  more 
incessant  exertions  ;  but  was  clearly  none  why  it  should  be  ren- 


43 

dered  more  diffusive,  inveterate,  and  consequently  more  alarm* 
ing  by  his  individual  participation  in  the  guilt. 

These  erroneous  opinions  which  governed  Charles  in  this  im- 
portant decision,  he  had  good  cause  to  renounce  when  too  late 
for  the  change  to  remedy  the  evil.  I  shall  have  to  record  his 
intimate  knowledge  of  men  who  in  the  practice  of  the  law  have 
invariably  practised  the  biddings  of  justice  and  of  honour,  one 
of  whom  was  among  the  most  valued,  tried  and  best  known  of 
his  friends. 

His  opinions  respecting  the  practice  of  the  law  at  a  subsequent 
period,  may  be  known  by  the  following  extract  from  a  letter 
written  in  answer  to  one  from  a  student  who  was  impatient  to 
be  admitted  to  the  bar. 

"  Your  letter  has  indeed  a  very  singular  appearance,  and  I 
congratulate  myself  more  than  ever  on  the  enjoyment  of  your 
friendship  !  What !  Is  all  this  wisdom  from  a  youth  ?  Whose 
passions  are  impetuous  ?  Who  has  been  exposed  to  all  the  se- 
ductions of  pleasures,  with  no  other  security  than  his  o^vn  pru- 
dence and  reflection?  And  is  his  conduct  agreeable  to  those 
maxims  ?  Justly  then  may  he  indulge  the  impulse  of  virtuous 
ambition,  and  please  himself  with  the  prospect  of  affluence  and 
honours.  Go  on,  amiable  and  ingenious  youth,  and  mayest  thou 
speedily  attain  what  thou  so  laudably  aspirest  after — the  fair 
fame  of  integrity  and  the  peace  of  virtue.  These  are  purposes 
that  are  truly  worthy  of  a  rational  being  ;  purposes  that  are 
almost  peculiar  to  thyself,  which  few  men  of  whatever  age  make 
the  object  of  their  wishes,  or  prosecute  with  equal  steadiness 
and  diligence,  and  which  is  still  more  rarely  to  be  found  in  the 
mind  of  those  of  the  same  age. 

**  May  the  hour  in  which  you  expect  to  be  admitted  speedily 
arrive.  Impatience  is  certainly  unnecessar}' :  that  there  are 
many  things  beside  a  knowledge  of  law  requisite  to  form  an 
advocate,  is  very  obvious,  and  though  your  legal  knowledge  may 
qualify  you  long  before  April  for  admission,  yet,  my  friend,  there 
are  other  accomplishments  which,  whatever  should  be  your  dili- 
gence or  resolution,  you  will  scarcely  have  attained  in  the  seventh 


44 

April  after  the  next.  But  if  legal  knowledge  were  the  only  re- 
quisite, yet  your  impatience  is  unreasonable,  since  while  their  re- 
mains any  thing  to  be  known,  you  cannot  be  esteemed  perfect; 
since  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  know  too  much,  and  since  after 
twenty  or  thirty  years  study  there  will  still  be  a  legal  something 
of  which  you  are  ignorant. 

"  It  is  true  that  success  in  all  the  learned  professions  is  too 
frequently  the  consequence  of  accident,  and  that  men  are  not 
always  rewarded  exactly  agreeably  to  their  merits ;  but  there  are 
particular  exceptions,  and  as  a  general  observation  it  is  undoubt- 
edly true,  that  men  of  all  professions,  and  particularly  lawyers^ 
are  successful  in  proportion  to  their  skill. 

"  I  need  not  tell  3'ou  what,  in  my  opinion,  are  the  necessary 
accomplishments  of  a  lawyer.  Our  sentiments,  I  believe,  are 
somewhat  different  on  this  subject,  but,  however  few  and  sim- 
ple they  may  be,  I  cannot  but  still  discover  the  necessity  of 
time  and  patience,  diligence,  and  the  unreasonableness  of  your 
impatience  for  admission.  Whatever  be  the  qualifications  of  an 
accomplished  lawyer,  yet  there  are  different  degrees  of  excel- 
lence in  them.  This  undoubtedly  is  his  employment,  to  think, 
to  write,  and  to  speak.  The  certainty  and  facility  with  which 
he- shall  answer  questions  that  come  before  him,  will  unques- 
tionably depend  on  the  degree  of  knowledge  which  he  has  ac- 
quired, and  of  the  sagacity  which  he  possesses.  Study  and  re- 
flection are  the  sources  of  legal  knowledge,  as  of  every  other 
kind,  and  tiiese  sources  are  inexhaustible.  From  these  fountains, 
therefore,  whatever  we  possess  must  be  drawn.  But  we  can- 
nbt  draw  too  much,  and  every  possible  accession  to  our  store, 
must  be  not  only  not  useless,  but  highly  advantageous  to  us, 
whether  we  be  eager  for  wealth  or  for  reputation. 

^'  As  a  writer,  both  his  style  and  his  penmanship  are  improv- 
able by  practice.  How  far  the  qualities  of  style  are  entitled  to 
his  attention,  may  perhaps  be  a  question ;  but  that  he  has  numer- 
ous occasions  for  the  ex:>rciseof  penmanship  is  indisputable;  and 
that  it  is  highly  his  int.  re-: t  to  become  master  of  an  expeditious 
mode  of  writing.  A  lav.yer,  whether  at  court  or  in  his  own 
closet,  has  perpetual  use  for  his  pen  j  and  is  it  necessary  to  ex- 


45 

patiate  on  the  advantages  of  writing  with  as  much  rapidity  as 
any  man  can  articulate  ?  or  can  you  doubt  either  that  you  have 
not  attained  this,  or  that  it  is  attainable. 

"  With  respect  to  speech,  it  may  not  be  incumbent  on  my 
friend  to  make  himself  an  orator  in  the  genuine  sense.  The 
talents  of  Cicero  could  not,  perhaps,  with  propriety  be  dis- 
played in  their  full  extent  in  any  American  court;  but  what  is 
more  necessary  or  desirable  than  to  deliver  one's  self  with  flu- 
ency and  correctness  ?  There  are  no  ears  to  whom  the  utmost 
degree  of  accuracy  of  reasoning  and  language  is  unsuitable, 
which  cannot  relish  the  utmost  degree  of  perspicuity  both  of  ex- 
pression and  of  argument.  But  have  you  already  attained  these 
qualifications?  In  short,  can  you  on  all  occasions,  conceive  and 
express  clearly,  forcibly,  and  gracefully,  to  which  I  may  add, 
rapidly  ?  These  are  attainments  within  your  power.  The  end 
is  not  unworthy  of  the  means.  The  more  you  acquire  before 
admission  to  the  bar,  the  less  will  be  to  be  acquired  after.  So 
far  are  any  of  your  pursuits,  merely  as  a  lawyer,  obstructed  by 
the  delay  of  your  admission,  that  it  will  in  reality  be  favourable 
to  them.  There  is  a  goal  which  you  are  desirous  of  reaching, 
and  between  which  and  yourself  there  is  an  ample  space.  Now 
if  your  strength  is  at  all  times  equal,  if  whenever  you  begin 
this  career,  exactly  the  same  space  of  time  will  be  required  to 
finish  it,  it  is  doubtless,  proper  to  begin  as  soon  as  possible,  be- 
cause the  sooner  you  begin  the  sooner  you  will  end ;  but  if  by 
delaying  to  begin  for  a  reasonable  time  (two,  three,  or  four  years) 
you  do  not  set  the  gaol  at  a  greater  distance  ;  if  supposing 
you  should  begin  now,  you  would  reach  it  in  seven  years  ;  yet 
that,  if  you  should  delay  your  enterprize  for  two  years,  and  be- 
gin then,  your  strength  and  vigour  would  be  augmented  in  the 
interval,  so  as  to  enable  you  to  reach  it  as  soon  as  another  who 
began  at  this  time,  would  not  the  delay  be  rather  advantage- 
ous than  otherwise  ?  At  least  is  the  advantage  greater  on  one  side 
than  on  the  other  ?  And  are  not  these  your  circumstances  my 
dear  W.  ?  The  longer  j^ou  delay  your  admission  will  you  not 
be  better  qualified  for  practice  ?  I  have  heard  a  gentleman  ob- 
serve that  were  he  a  student  of  law.  he  would  not  begin  to  prac- 


46 

tice  till  he  was  twenty-seven  or  twenty-eight  years  of  age.  But, 
my  friend,  perhaps  your  domestic  circumstances  would  not 
suffer  you  to  delay  your  admission  so  long,  and  I  am  sure  that 
your  present  attainments  would  not  justify  so  long  a  delay. 
You  are  very  young,  and  though  it  would  perhaps  be  impos- 
sible, or  if  possible,  by  no  means  necessary  to  continue  a  stu- 
dent for  seven  or  eight  years  longer,  yet  to  preserve  that 
character  for  one  or  two  years  more  would  neither  be  impossi- 
ble, or  improper.  However  you  should  think  proper  to  deter- 
mine, were  it  in  your  power  to  hasten  or  procrastinate  your  ad- 
mission, yet  these  considerations  ought  at  least  to  make  you 
patient  under  unavoidable  delays." 

One  of  the  earliest  friends  of  Charles  Brockden  Brown  was 
a  young  man  of  singular  beauty  and  animation,  combined  with 
talents  and  wit  of  a  most  extraordinary  and  fascinating  quality. 
The  writer  became  acquainted  with  him  through  the  introduc- 
tion of  Brown,  and  never  has  ceased  to  regret  his  premature 
.death.  The  characters  of  Brown  and  W.  were  in  most  points 
essentially  different,  but  composed  of  such  contrarieties  as  ne- 
ver came  into  serious  and  repulsive  collision.  In  depth  and 
extent  of  inquiry,  various  and  accurate  knowledge,  even  on 
those  points  with  v/hich  W.  himself  Avas  most  familiar,  Brown 
was  pre-eminent.  W.  had  a  ready,  persuasive  and  fascinating 
eloquence  always  at  command ;  a  fancy  prompt  and  vigor- 
ous, with  a  wit  which  delighted  even  those  at  whose  expense  it 
was  exerted.  Such  talents  rendered  him  a  valuable  acquisition 
to  the  law  society,  for  he  too  was  a  student  preparing  for  the 
bar.  If  too  careless  or  indolent  to  investigate  his  subject,  he 
was  ever  able  to  adorn  it,  and  was  heard  with  delight  if  not 
with  conviction.  Possessing  a  warm  and  susceptible  heart,  he 
early  attached  himself  to  Charles,  and  an  acquaintance  formed 
in  the  first  instance  by  the  casual  meetings  of  the  societv,  soon 
consolidated  into  a  permanent  friendship ;  a  friendship  which 
in  fact  existed  until  the  death  of  W.  When  W.  was  present 
they  were  almost  inseparable  companions  ;  when  absent  they 
punctually  corresponded.     Amidst  these  testimonies  of  affec- 


47 

tion,  some  may  be  selected  characteristic.  In  one  of  these 
Charles  remarks,  that  the  most  perfect  and  refined  misery  is 
the  price  at  which  we  buy  just  conceptions  of  propriety  and 
duty,  by  acting  in  opposition  to  them.  The  miseries  of  vice 
and  the  blessedness  of  well  doing,  are  attestations  equally  strong 
of  the  value  and  dignity  of  virtue,  but  the  sense  of  this  persua- 
sion is  proportioned  to  the  extent  of  those  opposite  consequen- 
ces. Actions  he  continues  are  not  the  just  criterion  of  senti- 
ments. He  proceeds  to  set  before  his  correspondent  the  plea- 
sures derived  from  the  indulgence  of  virtuous  love,  a  smiling 
family,  and  all  the  tender  delights  of  honourable  intercourse, 
the  acquisition  of  riches  and  honours.  He  goes  on  to  assert 
that  his  friend  will  hereafter  realize  the  scene  which  his  fancy 
is  painting  now  ;  that  he  himself  is  only  acting  the  character  of 
the  prophet,  and  dwells  with  peculiar  delight  in  the  indulgence 
of  the  visions,  which  fact  and  not  fancy  discloses.  The  ele- 
gance of  this  reproof  will  be  better  understood,  if  we  resort  to 
the  character  of  W.  as  it  was  drawn  by  Charles  himself  after 
the  death  of  that  gentleman. 

"  I  am  led  to  these  remarks,  he  continues,  by  reading  over 
the  letters  of  my  deceased  friend  W.  What  a  contrast  between 
his  actual  deportment,  and  any  notion  of  that  deportment  to  be 
collected  by  a  stranger  from  his  letters.  His  letters  to  me  are 
as  confidential  as  letters  can  be,  yet  they  form  a  picture  totally 
the  reverse  of  his  conversation  and  his  conduct.  He  had  no 
small  portion  of  wit,  and  this  power  was  in  part  exercised  in 
company  ;  but  the  moment  he  took  up  his  pen  to  write  a  letter 
or  an  essay,  he  forgot  all  his  mirth,  became  pensive,  sentimen- 
tal and  poetical.  To  hear  him  talk  one  would  think  that  he  never 
had  a  serious  moment  in  his  life.  He  literally  sung  himself  to 
sleep,  and  awakened  in  a  burst  of  laughter.  To  see  the  effu- 
sions of  his  pen,  one  would  imagine  that  he  was  a  stranger  to 
smiles,  that  he  was  forever  steeped  in  tears  and  wrapped  in 
melancholy.  In  this  there  was  nothing  that  deserved  to  be  call- 
ed affectation  and  hypocrisy,  since  he  corresponded  only  with 
those  with  whom  he  was  occasionally  in  the  habit  of  conversing  ; 


48 

and  his  tongue  regaled  them  with  unceasnig  jests,  with  just  aj, 
much  sincerity  as  his  pen  saddened  them  with  its  austerity,  or 
mehed  them  with  its  pathos.  Hh  aonnets  and  letters  talk  al- 
most altogether  of  love^  and  on  this  topic  no  Petrarch  was  ever 
more  tender^  refined  and  pathetic.  The  youth  was  forever  in 
iove.,  and  was  all  impassioned  eloquence  at  the  feet  of  an  adored 
fair  one  ;  hut  his  loine  was  merely  the  exuberance  of  healthy  and 
an  ardent  constitution.  Consequently  his  love  zvas  always  be- 
stowed upon  the  present  object,  and  never  stood  in  the  tvay  of  the 
most  licentious  indulgences.  After  receiving  a  letter,  full  of  the 
most  doleful  eulogies  of  some  divine  but  refractory  creature, 
and  hinting  his  resolution  to  shake  off  the  yoke  of  his  inauspi- 
cious stars,  I  have  hastened  to  his  chamber  to  console  him,  and 
found  him  at  a  table  presiding  with  marks  of  infinite  satisfaction, 
and  keeping  the  worthy  crew  that  surrounded  him  in  a  constant 
roar.  Such  was  my  friend,  and  such  were  his  letters.  His 
tongue  and  his  pen,  his  actions  and  his  written  speculations 
were  as  opposite  to  each  other  as  the  poles." 

In  one  of  the  letters  of  Charles  to  W.  may  be  found  a  sen- 
timent of  a  very  singular  nature,  as  it  shows  his  propensity  to 
extract  felicity  from  a  subject  which  is  commonly  regarded  as 
unfortunate.  He  had  discovered  by  accident,  that  he  was  af- 
flicted with  a  myopism,  by  having  accidentally  put  on  spectacles 
accommodated  to  such  vision.  He  discovers  that  he  possesses 
a  vision  superior  to  that  of  ordinary  men.  He  had  only  to  ap- 
ply to  his  eyes,  what  Dr.  Rush  calls  the  aid  of  declining  vision, 
and  he  is  ushered  into  a  new  and  beautiful  creation.  He  observes 
that  it  is  in  his  power  to  make  the  sun,  the  stars,  and  all  sur- 
rounding creation  sparkle  upon  his  view  with  renovated  lustre 
and  beauty.  Not  satisfied  with  this,  he  goes  on  to  compare  his 
situation  with  the  situation  of  those  who  had  ever  beheld  the 
sun  in  all  his  majesty  and  effulgence.  To  him  he  was  in  all 
his  glories,  a  stranger  :  he  had  never  been  familiarly  acquaint- 
ed with  so  glorious  a  personage. 

On  the  other  hand  to  those  who  had  always  revelled  in  the 
magnificence  of  nature,  they  had  become  satiuted  with  his  glo- 


49 

ly.  Creation  to  them  could  unfold  no  new  beauty  ;  a  glance 
of  the  eye  satisfied  them,  and  it  was  a  glory  that  palled  upon 
the  sense.  To  him  all  this  was  a  territory  unseen,  and  it  seem- 
ed as  if  nature  had  veiled  her  radiance  from  his  view,  to  the 
end  that  he  might  when  he  pleased,  indulge  himself  in  the  en- 
joyment of  her  bounties.  He  was  able  to  discern  light  enough 
to  guide  his  footsteps,  and  to  answer  all  the  purposes  of  social 
mtercourse  ;  all  beyond  this  was  novelty,  was  exquisite  enjoy- 
ment. To  those  who  were  surrounded  with  more  expanse  of 
vision,  all  tiiese  blessings  were  denied.  He  therefore  felicitated 
himself  on  the  thought  that  he  had  not  the  optics  of  ordinary 
men. 

It  has  been  already  remarked,  that  he  inherited  from  nature 
a  frail,  delicate,  and  a  sickly  constitution  ;  a  constitution  which 
incapacitated  him  from  athletic  exercise.     In  another  letter  to 
one  of  his  correspondents,  he  congratulates  himself  on  this  in- 
firmity.    He  is  by  the  benevolence  of  nature  rendered  in  a  man- 
ner an  exile  from  many  of  the  temptations  that  infest  the  minds 
of  ardent  youth.    Possessing  such  a  constitutional  infirmity,  he 
had  nothing  to  apprehend  from  those  enticements  which  usual- 
ly sway  the  minds  of  young  men.     He  had  by  nature  been  de- 
voted to  contemplation.    Whatever  his  wishes  might  have  been, 
his  benevolent  destiny  had  prevented  him  from  running  into  the 
frivolities  of  youth.  He  ascribes  to  this  cause  his  love  of  letters 
and  his  predominant  anxiety  to  excel  in  whatever  was  a  glori- 
ous subject  of  competition.     Had  he   been  furnished  with  the 
nerves  and  muscles  of  his  comrades,  it  was  very  far  from  be- 
ing impossible  that  he  might  have  relinquished  intellectual  plea- 
sures.    Nature  had  benevolently  rendered  him  incapable  of  en- 
countering such  severe  trials. 

From  hence  a  question  arose  \\  hether  it  was  virtue  in  him.  to 
refrain  from  those  pleasures  for  which  he  felt  no  appetite  to  in- 
dulge. He  gravely  dismisses  the  argument  with  his  opinion 
that  there  was  not.  Far  from  repining,  however,  he  earnestly 
prays  that  he  may  never  be  allowed  a  constitution  sufficient  to 
enable  him  to  stand  a  trial  so  severe ;  that  if  his  virtue  must 
be  plriced  under  the  patronage  of  natur*^,  he  mav  n^ver  be  de- 


50 

serted  by  his  guardian  ;  that  his  constitutional  imbecility  may 
prevent  his  falling  a  victim  to  those  temptations  which  he  has 
not  virtue  enough  to  avoid. 

That  Charles  was  dissatisfied  witTi  his  own  conduct  in  relin- 
quishing his  profession,  and  that  tl>e  disappointment  ef  his 
friends,  and  their  anxiety  for  his  future  welfare  preyed  upon 
his  spirits,  is  by  no  means  doubtful  with  me.  I  will  here  give 
fwo  extracts  from  his  letters  which  develope  his  character, 
and  show  the  gloom  of  his  mind  in  this  early  period  of  his 
life. 

''  As  for  me,  I  lon^  ago  discovered  that  nature  had  not  qua- 
lified me  for  an  actor  on  this  stage.  The  nature  of  my  educa- 
tion only  added  to  these  disqualifications,  and  I  experienced  all 
those  deviations  from  the  center,  which  arise  when  all  our  les- 
sons are  taken  from  books,  and  the  scholar  makes  his  own  cha- 
racter the  comment.  A  happy  destiny  indeed  brought  me  to 
the  knowledge  of  two  or  three  minds  which  nature  had  fashion- 
ed in  the  same  mould  with  my  own,  but  these  are  gone.     And, 

0  God !  enable  me  to  wait  the  raom'ent  when  it  is  thy  will  that 

1  should  follow  them." 

"  What,  my  friend,  art  thou  certainly  awake  ?  Or  is  it  that  I 
am  dreaming  ?  No,  I  believe  you  incapable  of  adulation  :  and 
yet  there  are  some  parts  of  your  acceptable  epistle,  which  are  ex- 
tremely supicious.  But  your  motives  do  not  only  excuse,  but 
justify  you  ;  when  a  friend  is  sinking  into  a  quicksand  or  strug- 
gling with  a  suffocating  stream,  there  is  nothing  can  betide  him 
which  is  so  dangerous  as  despair  ;  and  one,  who,  though  near  at 
hand,  is  unable  to  afford  him  any  personal  assistance,  cannot  be 
more  serviceable  to- him,  than  by  cherishing  his  hopes,  and  keep- 
ing him  from  yielding  to  despair ;  and  if  in  the  ardour  of  our 
exhortations,  and  the  precipitancy  of  our  zeal,  we  chance  to  de- 
viate from  rigid  truth,  and  facilitate  his  escape,  by  invigorating 
his  efforts  with  flattering  representations  of  his  power,  and  delu- 
sive promises  of  triumph,  is  it  not  more  to  be  commended  than 
censured  ? 


"  I  have  not  been  deficient  in  the  pursjuit  of  that  necessary 
branch  of  knowledge  ;  the  study  of  myself.  I  will  not  ex- 
plain the  result,  for  have  I  not  already  sufficient!)'  endeavoured 
to  make  my  friends  unhappy  by  communications,  which  though 
they  might  easily  be  injurious,  could  not  be  of  any  possible  ad- 
vantage. I  really,  dear  W.  regret  that  period  when  your  pity 
was  first  excited  in  my  favour.  I  sincerely  lament  that  I  ever 
gave  you  reason  to  imagine  that  I  was  not  so  happy,  as  a  gay 
indifference  with  regard  to  the  present,  stubborn  forgetfulness 
with  respect  to  the  uneasy  past,  and  excursions  into  light- 
some futurity  could  make  me  :  for  what  end,  what  useful 
purposes  were  promoted  by  the  discovery  ?  It  could  not  take 
away  from  the  number  of  the  unhappy,  but  only  add  to  it,  by 
making  those  who  loved  me  participate  in  my  uneasiness, 
which  each  participation  so  far  from  tending  to  dimmish,  would 
in  reality  increase,  by  adding  those  regrets  of  which  I  had  been 
the  author  in  them,  to  my  own  original  stock. 

*"■  I  have  a  brother,  whom  I  am  bound  by  innumerable  ties  to 
revere  and  love.  I  have  not  seen  him  except  for  a  few  days, 
these  eight  years.  He  has  gained  wisdom  by  experience,  a  bit- 
ter series  of  experiments  ;  but  though  there  has  subsisted  n,o 
personal  intercourse  between  us  for  so  long  a  time,  we  have 
talked  frequently  and  copiously  to  each  other  by  the  assistance  of 
tjhe  pen.  His  letters  are  lessons,  are  lessons  of  prudence, 
and  there  are  no  maxims  which  he  has  so  frequently  in,- 
culcated,  as  that  of  covering  from  the  eyes  of  others  with  an 
impenetrable  mask,  whatever  fears  or  anxieties  may  agi- 
tate us. 

"  This  precept  I  have  broken  only  with  regard  to  you  and  B. 
The  propriety  of  this  rule,  I  have  frequently  experienced  from 
the  advantages  resulting  from  adhering  to  It;  and  may  I  not  add 
that  its  propriety  has  also  been  evinced  by  the  inconveniences 
which  I  have  felt  by  deviating  from  it  ?  For  no  man  ought  to 
act,  but  in  pursuance  of  some  rational  motive,  and  what  useful 
purpose  could  be  answered  by  making  C.  B.  B.  better  known  to 
his  friend*  ?  What  but  their  unhapplness  could  be  produced  by- 
it? 


52 

"  Forget  me,  my  friend,  as  soon  as  possible.  At  least,  forget 
that  any  latent  anguish  or  corroding  sorrow,  is  concealed  under 
that  aspect  of  indifference  which  has  became  habitual.  Why 
should  I  any  longer  talk  to  you  of  myself  ?  Why  should  my  let- 
ters be  the  busy  and  malicious  witnesses  of  my  faults  and  folr 
lies  ?  You  are  too  young  to  be  my  father  confessor.  I  wonder 
you  have  not  declared  your  disapprobation  of  the  usual  strain 
of  my  epistles.  I  smile  (though  it  must  be  owned,  with  less 
gaiety  than  seriousness)  at  the  foolish  part  which  I  have  acted 
so  long,  unreasonably  and  unnecessarily  imparting  sorrow  to 
those  whom  I  must  wish  happy  in  proportion  as  I  love  them, 
and  calling  out  for  consolations,  which  I  know  to  be  impossible 
to  be  obtained. 

"  For  shame,  thou  idiot  or  thou  madman  !  cease  th)'-  lamen- 
table croakings.  Reserve  gloomy  meditations  and  useless 
complaining  for  thy  chamber,  and  show  at  least  thy  magnan- 
imity by  concealing  that  whi,ch  thou  canst  not  cure.  Here 
drops  the  curtain.  The  catastrophe  of  the  drama  if  acted 
openly,  will  only  diffuse  a  melancholy  gloom  qver  the  audience. 
All  that  remains  shall  be  transacted  in  secret,  and  behind  the 
scenes. 

"  Had  I  never  had  friends  and  relations,  I  am  convinced  that 
before  this  time  I  had  ceased  either  to  exist,  or  to  exist  as  an  in- 
habitant of  America.  I  know  from  experience  the  strength  of 
that  obstacle  to  the  direful  schemes  of  despair,  which  results 
from  possessing  friends  who  would  be,  at  least  for  a  time,  incon- 
solably  afRicted  by  the  loss  of  the  sufferer.  It  is  indeed  my  in- 
terest perliaps  to  add  to  the  number  of  my  friends,  because  in 
proportion  to  their  number,  will  be  the  obstacles  to  any  rash 
design. 

"  I  have  indeed  sincerely  lamented — I  must  lay  down  mr 
pen  till  my  thoughts  flow  in  a  less  uneasy  channel.  Your 
letter  has  made  me  extremely  serious.  Why  did  you  not 
comply  with  my  request,  and  forbear  to  expatiate  on  this 
theme  ?  but  I  flatter'^  myself  that  you  will  pay  more  regard  to  it 
in  future.  * 

"  I  expected  that  I  should  give  vou  pleasure  by  the  infor- 


5  a 

mation  relating  to  your  father ;  that  good,  worthy,  hospitable 
man,  whom  I  shall  always  remember  with  affection  and  res- 
pect both  for  his  own  sake,  and  that  of  his  son.  You  can- 
not imagine  how  highly  I  am  pleased  with  myself  for  my  rea- 
sonable recollection  of  this  interview,  and  my  reiisonable  rela- 
tion of  it.  i 

*'  It  was  my  vanity,  perhaps,  that  was  pleased  in  your  father's 
approbation  of  the  friends  which  his  son  had  chosen  :  and  yet 
may  I  not  reasonably  believe  that  my  friendship  was  useful  to 
him.  Will  any  one  be  made  worse,  will  his  understanding  be 
depraved,  or  his  heart  be  corrupted,  by  associating  with  me  ? 
Will  his  love  of  learning  and  of  virtue  he  impaired  ?  I  think  not ; 
for  I  am  neither  incorrigibly  stupid,  nor  remorselessly  wicked. 
I  am  a  lover  and  admirer  of  all  that  is  good  and  fair  in  the  phy- 
sical and  moral  universe.  No  one  gazes  at  genius  with  more 
enthusiastic  delight  and  admiration,  or  at  virtue  with  greater 
love  and  reverence.  No,  I  am  determined  to  believe  that  W. 
might  have  chosen  a  more  pernicious  and  unprofitable  friend. 

"  This  part  of  my  letter  will  require  no  answer.  I  know  not 
indeed  why  it  was  written.  I  indeed  find  as  much  reason  to  cen- 
sure and  despise  myself,  that  I  expatiate  with  more  pleasure,  and 
consequently  at  greater  length,  on  any  circumstance  of  self-ap- 
plause. I  seize  any  thing  however  weak  and  dubious,  by  which 
I  can  hope  to  raise  myself  from  that  profound  abyss  of  ignominy 
and  debasement,  into  which  I  am  sunk  by  my  own  reflections. 
And  that  a  man  of  so  much  experience  and  discernment  as  your 
father,  approves  in  the  choice  of  his  son  of  me  as  a  friend,  is 
too  pleasing  an  idea  to  be  easily  relinquiished,  and  is  a  coun- 
terbalance for  many  anxieties. 

"  Do  you  read  the  books  which  you  mention  ?  Is  your  read- 
ing altogether  legal  ?  Surely  such  constant  and  invariable  legali- 
ty is  not  indispensably  necessary.  I  indeed,  am  inclined  to  think 
that,  so  far  from  being  necessary  to  adhere  so  strictlj'  to  the  case, 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  sometimes  to  deviate  from  it;  but  it  is 
likely  that  I  am  mistaken.  If  my  own  experience  were  to  deter- 
mine my  opinion,  I  should  rather  think  that  he  only  can  derive 
pleasure,  and  consequently  improvement,  from  the  study  of  the 


54 

law,  Who  knows  and  wishes  to  kno»v  nothing  eJse.  As  a  student 
I  believe  you  have  always  acted  in  the  most  prudent  and  reason- 
able manner,  and  a  method  (of  which  abstractedly  considered) 
the  propriety  should  appear  dubious  to  me,  would  be  sufficient- 
ly vindicated  by  your  practice." 

A  friend  who  had  read  the  letters  and  journals  of  Mr.  Brown 
makes  the  following  remarks.  He  taxed  his  correspondents  al* 
ways  to  make  themselves  the  heroes  of  their  own  letters  :  no- 
thing he  said  was  productive  of  so  much  delight  as  to  hear  of 
their  welfare,  to  share  their  joys,  and  their,  sorrows.  On  the 
other  hand  in  his  own  letters  he  sedulously  avoided  the  men- 
tion of  himself,  on  the  ground  that  he  had  nothing  personally 
to  communicate,  which  would  give  his  correspondents  pleasure ; 
and  his  native  delicacy  forbade  him  to  excite  unnecessary  pain. 
His  correspondence  therefoi'e  with  his  most  intimate  friends, 
wears  a  curious  cast.  On  their  side  is  the  utmost  frankness  in 
the  disclosure  of  all  the  little  circumstances  affording  them  de- 
light ;  on  his  part  he  joins  in  their  joy,  and  revels  in  their  in- 
tellectual hilarity  ;  presents  these  circumstances  again  in  a  more 
fascinating  shape,  and  makes  his  page  the  depository  of  all  the 
benevolent  sympathies  in  which  he  so  munificently  indulges. 
We  should  be  led  to  suppose  him  entirely  happy;  that  his 
heart  was  perfectly  at  ease.  Now  in  requital  for  all  this  frank- 
ness and  confidence,  what  is  communicated  on  his  part  ?  Lite- 
rally nothing.  When  pressed  on  this  subject,  he  declares  that 
his  own  heart  shall  be  the  depository  of  its  own  gloomy  sensa- 
tions, and  that  when  he  cannot  communicate  pleasure,  he  will 
communicate  nothing.  He  represents  his  afflictions  beyond  the 
power  of  friendship  to  redress  ;  and  that  it  would  be  mean  in 
him  to  excite  sympathy  so  unavailing.  Do  I  wish  the  friend- 
ship of  such  men,  he  would  say,  only  to  make  myself  a  burthen 
to  them  ?  Must  not  they  themselves  despise  me  if  I  thus  abuse 
their  confidence,  and  endeavour  to  load  them  with  the  miseries 
which  my  unhappy  fate  has  destined  me  to  endure  ?  Have  I  no 
other  pleasures  in  friendship  than  what  is  derived  from  the  mi- 
series of  my  friends  f  JS^o,  he  would  say,  let  me  participate  in.iill 


55 

tkeir  joys  and  sorrows,  but  let  all  my  misfortunes  be  borne  by 
myself.  Thus  does  his  private  journal  often  furnish  a  most 
striking  contrast  to  his  familiar  letters.  By  the  former  we  dis- 
cover his  heart  to  be  oppressed  with  gloom  and  dejection ;  while 
if  we  cast  our  eyes  on  a  letter  of  the  same  date,  we  shall  find 
him  entering  into  all  the  gay  and  cheerful  feelings  of  his  friends, 
abandoning  the  contemplation  of  his  own  sorrows  for  a  moment, 
to  assist  in  the  prolongation  of  their  hilarity.  His  earliest  char- 
acter was  formed  on  this  ron*antic  standard,  nor  did  he  ever 
renounce  it  afterwards.  Not  only  in  his  epistolary,  but  in  his 
personal  intercourse  with  his  frieuds  he  acted  on  this  principle, 
and  if  at  any  time  he  departed  from  this  resolution  by  accident, 
he  severely  censures  himself  in  his  journal ;  taxes  himself  with 
pusillanimity,  and  makes  the  most  ardent  protestations  that  he 
will  endeavour  to  amend.  As  an  instance  of  his  inflexible 
perseverance,  he  was  once  at  the  house  of  a  friend  afflicted 
with  a  malady  by  which  his  life  was  put  in  the  most  imminent 
jeopardy.  All  the  anxiety  that  he  testified  was,  that  he  should 
become  burthensome  to  his  friends  :  a  reflection  which  seemed 
to  give  him  much  more  uneasiness  than  the  pains  with  which  he 
was  afflicted. 

Dissatisfied  with  Iiimself,  and  with  the  most  gloomy  pros- 
pects of  the  future  scenes  destined  for  his  lot  in  life,  Charles, 
as  if  to  avoid  the  presence  of  his  disappointed  friends,  ra«ibled 
from  home  without  any  apparently  defined  object.  At  New 
York  he  was  introduced  to  the  acquaintance  of  the  writer,  by 
Doctor  Elihu  Hubbard  Smith. 

E.  H.  Smith,  was  a  native  of  Lichfield  Connecticut,  and  only 
son  of  Doctor  Reuben  Smith,  of  that  place.  From  his  infancy 
attached  to  books,  Eliliu  was  at  a  very  early  period  qualified 
to  enter  college,  and  was  accordingly  placed  at  Yale,  then 
under  the  presidency  of  Doctor  Styles.  After  passing  through 
college  with  reputation,  he  was  still  a  boy,  and  his  father  very 
j  udiciously  placed  him  under  the  care  and  tuition  of  Doctor 
Dwight,  now  president  of  Yale  College,  then  minister  of  Green- 
field, Connecticut,  and  principal  of  an  academy  of  high  reputa- 
tion in  that  village.     After  due  preparation  in  medical  studies 


5j5 

under  his  father,  Elihu  was  sent  to  Philadelphia  for  the  pur- 
pose of  completing  his  education  as  a  physician,  and  in  that 
city  became  an  associate  of  Brown's.  Being  qualified  for  prac- 
tice, Doctor  Smith  fixed  upon  the  city  of  New  York  for  the 
place  of  his  residence,  and  became  the  intimate  associate  and 
friend  of  the  writer,  so  continuing  until  his  death.  To  this  in- 
estimable young  man  I  owed  the  friendship  of  Brown. 

The  first  visit  of  Charles  to  New  York  was  not  of  long  du- 
ration, but  he  found  himself  so  cordially  adopted  into  a  so- 
ciety so  well  suited  to  his  taste  and  pursuits,  that  the  visit  was 
soon  repeated,  and  for  years  succeeding,  New  York  became  al- 
most the  home  of  Brown.  For  several  years  it  was  my  good 
fortune  to  have  him  as  an  inmate  with  my  family,  on  these 
visits,  sometimes  at  New  York,  and  sometimes  at  Perth  Am- 
boy,  but  upon  an  establishment  being  formed  in  a  commodious 
house  in  New  York,  by  Doctor  Smith  and  Wm.  Johnson,  esqr. 
Brown  at  their  invitation  joined  them,  and  thenceforward  only 
resided  with  me  when  my  family  was  at  Perth  Amboy. 

No  two  men  were  ever  more  sincerely  attached  to  each 
other,  than  Charles  Brockden  Brown  and  Elihu  Hubbard 
Smith,  yet  in  many  particulars  no  two  men  were  ever  more 
different.  Both  under  the  necessity  of  being  economists, 
Brown  acted  as  if  he  had  no  use  for  money;  while  Smith 
systematically  calculated  his  resources,  and  contracted  his 
wants  rigidly  within  the  reach  of  his  means.  Brown  was 
without  system  in  every  thing  ;  Smith  did  nothing  but  by  rule,  ^ 
and  was  as  strict  an  economist  of  his  time  as  of  his  money. 
Brown  was  negligent  of  personal  appearance,  even  to  sloven- 
liness, while  Smith  was  in  cleanliness,  neatness  and  attention 
to  the  proprieties  of  dress,  a  perfect  model,  and  seCjmed  to 
make  the  purity  of  his  person,  and  even  of  his  clothing,  an  in- 
dex of  the  purity  of  his  mind.  Brown  was  in  mixed  compa- 
ny often  silent  and  absent ;  Smith  entered  readily  into  the 
views  and  conversation  of  those  around  him  with  the  ease  of 
a  man  of  the  world.  Their  long  and  intimate  intercourse 
tended  to  assimilate  them  in  some  of  these  particulars,  and  in 
none  more  than  in  the  necessary  attention  to  personal  appear- 


57 

ance  and  propriety  of  dress.  They  were  both  joumalizers,  or 
recorders  of  the  passing  events  of  their  lives,  their  studies, 
their  thoughts  and  their  actions  ;  but  in  this  as  in  other  things, 
Brown  was  fitful  and  irregular,  while  Smith  was  uniform,  dili' 
gent  and  orderly. 

A  great  source  of  pleasure  and  improvement  to  Charles 
during  his  residence  in  Nev/  York  was  a  literary  society, 
formed  before  his  first  visit,  which  under  the  humble  appella- 
tion of*  the  Friendly  Club,"  continued  for  several  years  to  meet 
weekly  at  the  house  of  one  or  other  of  the  members,  discuss 
literary  or  other  subjects,  and  part  of  the  time  in  conducting 
a  review.  The  members  of  this  club  were  Wm.  Johnson, 
esq. ;  Doctor  Edward  Miller;  the  Rev.  Doctor  Samuel  Miller'; 
Doctor  S.  L.  Mitchill ;  James  Kent,  esq.  Anthony  Bleecher, 
esq.  Doctor  E.  H.  Smith ;  Charles  Adams,  esq.  John  Wells, 
esq.  W.  W.  Woolsey,  esq.  C.  B.  Brown,  and  the  writer. 
With  most  of  the  members  of  the  Friendly  CUib,  Brown  was 
in  the  habits  of  the  strictest  intimacy,  and  enjoyed  their  so- 
ciety unreservedly  at  other,  as  well  as  the  stated  times  of  pe- 
riodical meeting. 

In  his  journals.  Brown  frequently  mentions  the  meetings  of 
the  club.  On  one  occasion  he  has  these  words  :  "  Last  even- 
ing spent  with  the  clubists  at  K.'s.  Received  from  the  candour 
of  K.  a  severe  castigation  for  the  crimes  of  disputatiousness 
and  dogmatism.  Hope  to  profit  by  the  lesson  that  he  taught 
me." 

His  journals  of  this  time  are  interspersed  with  plans  and 
scraps  of  Eutopias,  which  are  left  in  so  unfinished  a  situation 
as  to  be  unintelligible.  In  common  with  many  ardent  minds 
filled  with  a  love  of  their  fellow  creatures,  he  sought  for  some 
plan  by  which  to  improve  and  secure  humait  happiness. 
Many  delightful  visions  floated  in  his  imagination,  and  their 
traces  will  be  perceived  in  the  portions  of  his  early  writings 
now  presented  to  the  public  ;  but  these  schemes  were  none  of 
them  ever  so  arranged  as  to  produce  a  complete  or  finished 
work. 

Previous  to  my  becoming  acquainted   with  Brown,  he  had 

8  * 


58 

visited  Bethlehem  and  Nazareth,  and  rambled  on  foot  over  the 
adjacent  country.  He  had  likewise  visited  Connecticut,  and 
made  acquaintance  with  many  of  the  friends  of  his  beloved 
Elihu  H.  Smith.  Of  these  journeys  I  have  no  memorials  ex- 
cept scanty  and  unsatisfactory  notices,  which  will  be  the  more 
regretted  by  the  reader,  after  perusing  the  following  account 
of  an  excursion  to  Rockaway  with  two  friends,  written  in  the 
form  of  a  letter,  and  first  published  in  the  Literary  Magazine. 

"Dear  R. 

*'  What  possible  amusement  can  you  expect  from  my  recital 
of  a  jaunt  to  Rockaway  ?  I  cannot  dignify  trifles,  or  give  to  vul- 
gar sights  a  novelty,  by  making  them  pass  through  my  fancy. 
That  fancy,  you  v/ell  know,  has  no  particle  of  kindred  to  that  of 
poet  or  painter,  and  nobody  should  pretend  to  describe,  who 
does  not  look  through  the  optics  of  either  painter  or  poet. 
Besides,  my  %norance  circumscribes  my  curiosity.  I  have 
few  objects  of  remembrance  with  which  to  compare  the  ob- 
jects that  I  meet  with.  Hence,  as  the  carriage  whirls  along, 
faces,  fences,  houses,  barns,  cultivated  fields,  pass  rapidly 
across  my  eye,  without  leaving  a  vestige  behind  them.  You 
will  of  course  ask  me,  how  the  fields  are  inclosed  ?  How  they 
are  planted  ?  What  portion  is  tilled  ?  what  is  wood,  and  what 
is  waste  ?  Of  what  number,  materials,  dimensions,  and  form, 
are  the  dwellings,  the  granaries,  the  churches,  the  bridges,  the 
carriages  ?  What  is  the  countenance,  the  dress,  the  deport- 
ment of  the  passengers,  and  so  forth  ?  through  an  endless 
catalogue  of  interrogatories. 

"  Now  I  cannot  answer  a  word  to  all  these  questions.  Tour 
attention,  on  the  contrary,  during  such  a  journey  would  be  in- 
cessantly alive  :  you  would  take  exact  note  of  all  these  particu- 
lars, and  draw  from  them  a  thousand  inferences  as  to  the  na- 
ture of  the  soil,  the  state  of  agriculture,  and  the  condition 
of  the  people.  While  your  companions  were  beguiling  the 
time  by  a  map  :  by  looking  eagerly  forward  to  the  baiting 
place,  and  asking  the  driver  now  and  then,  how  many  miles 
he  had  to  go  to  dinner,  or  cursing  the   dust,  the  heat,  the^ 


59 

jolting,  and  the  hard  benches,  or  conversing  with  each  other, 
all  your  senses,  and  your  whole  soul  would  be  chained  to  pass- 
ing objects.  Not  a  stone  would  you  meet  with,  but  should 
instantly  pass  through  your  crucible ;  not  a  tree  or  a  post,  but 
would  serve  as  a  clue  to  the  knowledge  of  the  soil,  climate, 
and  the  industry  of  the  island.  You  would  count  the  passen- 
gers, take  an  inventory  of  their  dress.,  mark  their  looks  and 
their  steps;  you  would  calculate  the  length,  breadth,  and 
height  of  all  the  buildings ;  and  compare  every  thing  you 
saw,  from  the  church  to  the  pig-pen,  and  from  the  parson  to 
the  plough-boy,  with  all  that  you  had  seen  elsewhere. 

"  Such  is  the  traveller,  my  friend,  that  you  would  have 
made  ;  and  you  would  have  known  more  of  Long-Islandjin  a  few 
hours,  than  many  who  have  lived  within  sight  of  it  these  fifty 
years  :  I,  alas  !  am  one  of  those  whom  fifty  years  of  obser- 
vation would  leave  in  the  same  ignorance  in  which  they  found 
me. 

"  'Tis  true,  as  you  say,  that  such  an  unobservant  wretch 
as  I  represent  myself  to  be,  may  yet  amuse  by  relating  his 
own  sensations,  and  his  narrative,  if  it  give  no  account  of 
the  scene  of  his  journey,  will,  at  least,  comprise  a  picture  of 
his  own  character.  An  accurate  history  of  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  of  any  man,  for  one  hour,  is  more  valuable  to  some 
minds,  than  a  system  of  geography  ;  and  you,  you  tell  me, 
are  one  of  those  who  would  rather  travel  into  the  mind  of  a 
ploughman,  than  into  the  interior  of  Africa.  I  confess  myself 
of  your  way  of  thinking  ,•  but  from  very  different  motives. 
I  must  needs  say  I  would  rather  consort  forever  with  a  plough- 
man, or  even  with  an  old  Bergen  market  woman,  than  expose 
myself  to  an  hundredth  part  of  the  perils  which  beset  the  heels 
of  a  Ledyard  or  a  Parke. 

"  You  see  how  ingeniously  I  put  off  this  unpleasant  task  : 
but  since  you  will  not  let  me  off,  I  must  begin.  Remember,  it 
is  a  picture  of  myself,  and  not  of  the  island,  that  you  want :  and 
such,  how  disreputable  soever  it  may  be  to  the  painter,  you  shall 
have.  I  have  some  comfort  in  thinking,  that  most  of  the  tra- 
vellers to  Rockaway,  are  b\it  little  wiser  and  more  inquisitive 
than  mvself. 


60 

*'  In  th«  fifSt  place,  then,  we  left  I.'s  at  one  o'clock.  The 
day  was  extremely  fine,  and  promised  a  most  pleasant  ride. 
You  may  suppose  that  we  were  most  agreeably  occupied  in  the 
frospect  of  a  journey  which  neither  of  the  three  had  ever  made 
bfefore :  but  no  such  thing.  We  thought  and  talked  of  nothing 
but  the  uncertainty  of  getting  seats  in  the  stage,  which  goes  at 
that  hour  from  Brooklynn,  and  the  reasonable  apprehension  of 
being  miserably  crowded,  even  if  we  could  get  seats.  Such  is 
iny  aversion  to  being  wedged  with  ten  or  twelve  in  a  stage 
toach,  that  I  had  previously  resolved  to  return,  in  case  of  any 
such  misfortune.  So  I  told  my  friends,  but  in  this  I  fibbed  a 
little,  for  the  naked  truth  was,  that  I  wanted  a  pretext  for  stay- 
ing behind  ;  having  left  society  in  New  York,  the  loss  of  which 
all  the  pleasures  of  Rockaway  would  poorlj'"  compensate. 

"  We  passed  the  river,  and  after  dining  at  the  inn,  were  seat- 
fed  in  the  coach  much  more  at  our  ease  than  we  had  any  reason 
to  expect.  We  rode  through  a  country  altogether  new  to  me, 
twelve  or  fourteen  miles  (I  forgot  which)  to  Jamaica.  Shall 
I  give  you  a  peep  into  my  thoughts  ?  I  am  half  ashamed  to 
admit  you,  but  I  will  deal  sincerely  with  you.  Still,  say  I,  my 
consolation  is,  that  few  travellers,  if  their  minds  were  laid  as 
completely  open  to  inspection,  would  come  off  from  their  trial 
with  more  credit  than  myself. 

"  I  confess  to  you  then  that  my  mind  was  much  more  busily 
engaged  in  reflecting  on  the  possible  consequences  of  coming 
off  without  several  changes  of  clothes  in  my  handkerchief,  and 
without  an  umbrella  to  shelter  me  from  sunshine  and  rain,  than 
with  the  fields  and  woods  which  I  passed  through.  My  um- 
brella I  had  the  ill  luck  to  break  as  we  crossed  the  river,  and 
as  to  clothes,  I  had  the  folly,  as  usual,  to  forget  that  Rockaway 
was  a  place  of  fashionable  resort,  and  that  many  accidents  might 
happen  to  prolong  our  stay  there  four  or  five  days,  instead  of  a 
single  day ;  and  yet  think  not  that  I  was  totally  insensible  to 
passing  objects.  The  sweet  pure  country  air,  which  was  brisk, 
cool  and  fresh  enough  to  make  supportable  the  noon-tide  rays 
of  a  July  sun,  to  the  whole  force  of  which  mv  seat  beside  the 
driver  exposed  me,  I  inhaled  with  delight.     I  remember  little. 


61 

however,  but  a  couptry,  pretty  much  denuded  of  its  xvoodsy  (as 
Sam.  Johnson  would  say)  a  sandy  soil ;  stubble  fields,  houses 
fifty  years  old,  a  couple  of  miles  from  each  other,  and  most  of 
them,  especially  those  furthest  on  the  road,  exact  counterparts 
of  such  as  we  see  in  Dutch  and  Flemish  landscapes  j  four- 
wheeled  rustic  carriages,  of  a  most  disproportioned  length,  cra- 
zy and  uncouth,  without  springs,  entered  from  behind,  and 
loaded  with  women  and  children,  pigs  and  chickens  j  not  a  sin- 
gle carriage  of  elegance  or  pleasure  to  be  met  with,  though 
overtaken  by  half  a  dozen  gigs,  going  to  the  same  place  with 
ourselves. 

"  We  reached  Jamaica  at  five  o'clock,  and  here  we  staid  one 
hour.  A  glass  of  lemonade,  a  plentiful  ablution  in  cold  water, 
and  a  walk  with  B.  in  a  church-yard  opposite  the  inn,  were 
all  the  surprising  events  which  distinguished  this  hour.  This 
island  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  European  settlements  in  North 
America,  and  we  therefore  expected  to  find  in  this  church- 
yard some  memorial  of  ancient  days,  but  we  were  disappoint- 
ed. There  were  many  grave-stones,  broken  or  half  sunken, 
or  blackened  by  age,  but  the  oldest  date  was  within  forty  years. 
The  church,  though  painted  anew  and  furbished  up  lately,  was 
about  seventy  years  old,  as  an  inscription  on  the  front  informed 
us.  There  was  another  of  a  much  more  antique  cast  within 
view,  but  we  did  not  approach  it. 

<'  I  hope  you  will  be  sparing  of  your  questions  respecting  Ja- 
maica, for  I  can  answer  none  of  them.  I  asked  not  a  single 
question  statistical  or  topographical  of  our  hostess.  I  did  not 
count  the  houses,  and  therefore  can  form  no  notion  of  the  popu- 
lation. It  is  a  spacious,  well-looking  village,  many  of  whose 
houses  appear  to  be  built  as  summer  retreats  for  wealthy  citi- 
zens, and  that  is  all  I  can  say  of  it. 

*'  During  our  second  stage,  I  was  placed  much  more  at  my  ease 
than  during  the  first.  I  v/as  seated  beside  a  pretty  little  girl, 
whom  ail  the  company  took  care  to  inform,  that  they  thought 
her  pretty.  For  my  part,  her  attractions  made  little  impression 
on  my  fancy.  To  be  infirmly  delicate  in  form,  to  have  a  baby- 
like innocence  of  aspect,  and  a  vcine  so  very  soft  that  it  can 


62 

scarcely  be  heard}  arc  no  recommendations  to  me.  She  prat- 
tled a  good  deal  about  a  squirrel  and  canary-bird  which  she  had 
at  home,  and  that  respectful  attention  was  paid  to  a  pair  of  very 
sweet  llps^  which  the  xvords  that  fell  from  them  would  never 
have  obtained.  The  rest  of  our  company  were  men,  and  I 
have  not  wit  enough  to  extract  any  oddity  or  singularity  from 
their  conversation  or  appearance.  Two  of  them,  you  know, 
were  my  companions,  and  the  other  two  cheerful  and  well-bred 
strangers. 

"  I,  for  the  most  part,  was  mute,  as  I  usually  am,  in  a  stage- 
coach and  among  strangers.  Not  so  my  two  friends.  B.  finds 
a  topic  of  talk  and  good  humour  in  every  thing,  and  J's 
amenity  is  always  ready  to  pursue  the  other's  lead.  I  forget 
all  their  topics,  except  a  very  earnest  discussion  of  the  merits 
of  dijfferent  lodging-houses ,  at  the  sea  side,  and  many  sympa- 
thetic effusions,  drawn  forth  by  the  shipwreck  of  another  coach. 
On  the  first  head  VvC  concluded  to  go  to  the  house  nearest  the 
sea,  one  Beu  Cornwall's,  our  purpose  being  as  much  to  gratify 
the  eye  as  the  touch,  and  there  we  accordingly  arrived,  pretty 
late  on  a  chill,  moist  and  cloudy  evening. 

"  There  are  few  men  who  are  always  masters  of  their  spirits, 
and  mine,  which  had  not  been  high  dirough  the  day,  fell  sud- 
denly some  degrees  lower,  on  stepping  out  of  the  carriage  into 
the  piazza  of  the  liouse.  This  place  appeared,  at  the  first  glance, 
to  want  at  the  same  time  the  comforts  and  seclusion  of  a  private 
house,  and  the  order  and  plent}-  of  a  public  one.  The  scene 
without  was  extremely  dreary,  and  the  vicinity  of  the  sea,  not 
being  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  gave  us  very  distinctly  the 
music  of  his  multitudinous  waves. 

"  Our  curiosity  would  not  allow  us  to  go  to  bed,  till  we  had 
touched  the  ocean-wave.  We,  therefore,  after  a  poor  repast, 
hastened  down  to  the  beach.  Between  the  house  and  the  water, 
is  a  wide  and  level  expanse  of  loose  white  sand,  which  is  a 
pretty  good  sample  of  Arabia  or  Ziiara,  as  I  have  heard  them 
described.  Tell  me,  }  ou  who  have  travelled,  whether  ever}' 
country,  in  the  temperate  zone,  of  moderate  extent  and  some- 
what diversified,  contains  not  samples  of  every  quarter  of  the 
globe  ? 


63 

"  The  air  was  wet  to  the  touch  and  saline  to  the  taste,  but  the 
novelty  of  the  scene,  to  which  a  canopy  of  dark  clouds,  with  a 
pale  star  gleaming  now  and  then  through  the  crevices,  tended 
to  increase,  buoyed  up  my  spirits  to  their  usual  pitch.  To  my 
friend  B.  this  novelty  was  absolute.  He  never  before  saw  the 
ocean ;  but  to  me  it  was  new  only  as  I  now  saAv  it,  at  night. 
Seven  years  ago  I  found  my  way  to  the  margent  of  the  sea, 
between  Sandyhook  and  the  mouth  of  the  Raritan.  I  took  a 
long  peregrination  on  foot,  in  company  with  two  friends,  and 
shall  never  forget  the  impression  which  the  boundless  and  trou- 
bled ocean,  seen  for  the  first  time,  from  an  open  beach,  in  a 
clear  day,  and  with  a  strong  wind  blowing  landward,  made  upon 
ine.  It  was  flood-tide,  and  the  sandy  margin  formed  a  pretty 
steep  shelf.  The  billows,  therefore,  rose  to  a  considerable 
height,  and  broke  with  great  fury  against  it;  and  my  soul  was 
suspended  for  half  an  hour,  with  an  awe,  a  rapture  which  I  never 
felt  before.  Far  different  were  my  feelings  on  this  occasion,  for 
the  scene  was  no  longer  new  to  me,  and  the  scene  itself  was  far 
less  magnificent.  There  was  scarcely  any  wind,  the  tide 
was  ebb,  and  the  shore  declined  almost  imperceptibly. 

"  As  we  came  to  this  place  for  the  purpose  of  bathing,  and  had 
so  short  a  time  to  stay,  we  thought  we  could  not  begin  too  early, 
and  therefore  stripe  immediately,  notwithstanding  the  freshness 
of  the  air,  and  what  is  of  greater  moment,  our  ignorance  of  the 
shore. 

"  Up,  pretty  high  upon  the  shore,  is  an  house,  no  better  than  a 
fisherman's  hut.  'Tis  a  mere  frame  of  v/ood,  boarded  at  the 
sides  and  top,  with  no  window,  and  a  door-way.  The  floor  is 
sand,  and  there  are  pegs  against  the  wall  to  hang  clothes  upon. 
There  is  a  tub  provided  for  cleansing  the  feet  from  the  sand 
which  when  wet  clings  to  the  skin  like  bird-lime.  Towels, 
v»hich  are  furnished  at  the  house,  we  brought  not  with  us. 

"  Is  there  any  thing,  the  advanta:,"s  of  which  are  more  univer- 
sally and  constantly  manifested,  than  order  ?  Its  value  is  seen 
in  the  most  trivial  matters,  as  in  the  most  momentous.  This 
room  v/as  pitch-dark,  and  v.-e  were  wholly  unacquainted  with  it : 
and  yet  by  the  simple  process  of  hanging  our  clothes,  as  we  take 


64 

them  off,  on  a  peg,  and  putting  them  on  in  the  same  order  rc- 
versedj  there  is  no  difficulty.  Some  of  us  were  not  so  wise  as 
to  practise  this  order,  and,  of  consequence,  were  condemned  to 
grope  about  half  an  hour  longer  than  others,  in  the  dark,  for 
stockings,  sleeve-buttons,  hats,  and  handkerchiefs. 

"  What  would  physicians  say  to  standing  naked  on  a  bleak 
night,  with  the  wind  at  east,  while  the  billows  broke  over  you 
for  ten  minutes  ?  There  is  an  agreeable  trepidation  felt,  while 
the  scene  is  new,  and  the  sudden  effusion  of  cold  water  must^ 
methinks,  produce  powerful  effects  of  some  kind  or  another. 

**  As  we  were  early  comers  to  this  house,  we  were  honoured 
each  with  a  room  to  himself.  There  were  twenty  or  thirty  per- 
sons to  be  accommodated,  besides  a  numerous  family,  in  a 
wooden  house  of  two  stories  ;  so  that  we  could  not  but  con- 
gratulate ourselves  on  the  privilege  thus  secured  to  us.  The 
chamber,  however,  allotted  to  me  was  a  little  nook,  about  se- 
ven feet  long  and  three  wide,  only  large  enough  to  admit  the 
bedstead  and  him  that  slept  in  it.  In  such  excursions  as  these, 
however,  hardships  and  privations,  are  preferable  to  ease  and 
luxury.  There  is  something  like  consciousness  of  merit  in  en- 
countering them  voluntarily  and  with  cheerfulness.  There  is  a 
rivalship  in  hardihood  and  good  humour,  more  pleasurable  than 
any  delights  of  the  senses.  A  splenetic  or  fastidious  traveller  is 
a  great  burden  to  himself  and  to  his  company,  and  ought, 
through  mere  generosity,  to  keep  himself  at  home.  In  saying 
this,  I  am  conscious,  that  in  some  degree,  I  pronounce  my  owa 
condemnation,  but  I  hope  I  aiu  not  very  culpable. 

*'  My  friends  rose  at  day-light  next  morning,  and  went  to 
bathe.  They  gave  me  warning,  but  I  heeded  it  not.  My  little 
nook  had  half  melted  me  with  heat,  and  I  felt  as  if  unqualified 
for  the  least  exertion.  I  was  sorry  to  have  lost  the  opportunity, 
and  rose,  when  the  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens,  with  some  de- 
gree of  regret.  But  more  Jacky  than  I  deserved  to  be,  I  found 
a  countiy  waggon  at  the  door,  ready  to  cany  down  any  one  that 
chose,  to  the  strand.      I  went  down  with  anotiier. 

"  This  was  a  far  different  bathing  from  that  of  the  night  before. 
The  waggon  carries  u?  to  the  Vr'aier'.'?  edge,  and  there  we  may 


65 

undress  at  our  leisure  amidst  a  footing  of  clean  straw,  con- 
venient seats  and  plenty  of  napkins.  The  wagon  receives  us 
directlv  from  the  water  and  carries  us  home,  without  trouble  or 
delay.  On  this  occasion  the  sun  was  just  warm  enough  to  be 
comfortable,  and  the  time  o'day  exactly  suited  to  the  bath. 
Such  is  my  notion  of  the  matter,  but  I  doubt  whether  any  body 
else  will  agree  with  me.  Sunrise  and  sun-set  are  the  usual  bath- 
ing-times. 

After  breakfast,  we  took  a  walk  along  the  strand.  My  pas= 
time  consisted  in  picking  up  shells ;  in  sifting  and  examining 
the  fine  white  sand  ;  in  treading  on  the  heels  and  toes  of  the 
wave,  as  it  fell  and  rose,  and  in  trying  to  find  some  music  in 
its  eternal  murmur.  Here  could  I  give  you  long  descants  on  all 
these  topics,  but  my  vague  and  crude  reveries  would  only  make 
my  dull  epistle  still  more  dull.  The  sun  at  last  broke  out  with 
the  full  force  of  midsummer,  and  we  panted  and  waded 
through  the  sand,  homeward,  with  no  small  regret  that  we  had 
ventured  so  far.  We  Americans  in  general  have  feeble  heads  t 
those  of  us,  I  mean,  who  were  not  born  to  dig  ditches  and  make 
hay.  A  white  hat,  broad-brimmed,  and  light  as  a  straw,  is  an 
insufficient  shelter  against  the  direct  beams  of  the  sun.  What 
must  we  have  suffered  on  this  occasion  when  the  vertical  rays 
fell  on  a  surface  of  smooth  white  sand  ?  We  were  almost  lique- 
fied before  we  reached  the  house* 

"  The  company,  at  this  house,  was  numerous,  and  afforded^ 
as  usual,  abundant  topics  of  speculation.  Some  were  young 
men,  in  the  hey  day  of  spirits,  rattling,  restless,  and  noisy. 
Some  were  solid  and  conversible,  and  some  awkward  and  re- 
served. Three  ladies,  married  women,  belonged  to  the  com- 
pany :  one  of  whom  said  nothing,  but  was  as  dignified  and  cour- 
teous in  demeanor  as  silence  would  let  her  be  :  another  talked 
much,  and  a  third  hit  the  true  medium  pretty  well.  I  did  not 
fail  to  make  a  great  many  reflections  on  the  passing  scene,  which, 
together  with  a  volume  of  Cecilia,  made  the  day  pase  not  very 
tediously. 

*'  My  friends  aWays  carry  books  with  them,  even  when  they 
go  abroad  for  a  few  hours.     One  of  them  to  day  produced  the5 

9  * 


65 

Maxims  of  La  Bruyere,  the  other  those  of  Rouchefoucauld, 
and  some  minutes  were  consumed  in  dec}^hering  and  com- 
menting on  these.  But  the  subject  which  engrossed  most  at- 
tention in  the  morning,  was  a  plan  for  procuring  a  dozen  of 
claret  for  the  embellishment  of  dinner  ;  and  the  return  of  man 
and  chaise,  without  the  claret  for  which  he  had  been  sent  to  a 
distant  tavern,  cast  a  great  damp  upon  the  spirits  of  most  of 
us.  We  got  rid  of  the  afternoon  pretty  easily,  by  giving  an 
hour  or  two  to  the  bottle,  and  the  rest  to  the  siesta.  As  to  our 
talk  at  dinner,  there  was  pierfect  good  humour,  and  a  good  deal 
of  inclination  to  be  witty,  but  I  do  not  recollect  a  single  good 
thing  that  deserves  to  be  recorded  ;  and  m.y  powers  do  not  en- 
able me  to  place  the  commou  place  characters  around  me  in 
an  interesting  or  amusing. point  of  view.  As  to  myself,  I  am 
never  at  home^  never  in  my  element  at  such  a  place  as  this. 
A  thousand  nameless  restraints  incumber  my  speech  and  my 
limbs,  and  I  cannot  even  listen  to  others  with  a  gay,  unembar- 
rassed mind.  Towards  evening  it  began  to  rain,  and  not  only 
imprisoned  us  for  the  present,  but  gave  us  some  apprehensions 
of  a  detention  here  for  a  week.  A  detention,  which,  for  many 
reasons,  one  of  which  I  have  already  mentioned,  would  have 
proved  extremely  disagreeable  to  me. 

"  My  friend,  I  have  grown  very  tired  of  my  story.  I  be- 
lieve I  will  cut  short  the  rest,  and  carry  you  back  with  me 
next  morning,  to  New  York,  in  a  couple  of  sentences.  The 
weather  on  the  morrow  was  damp  and  lowering,  but  it  cleared 
up  early.  We  were  again  agreeably  disappointed  in  our  ex- 
pectations of  a  crowded  stage,  and  arfter  breakfasting  at  Jamai- 
ca, reached  town  at  one  o'clock.  On  my  return,  I  was  just  as 
unobservant  of  the  passing  scene  as  before,  and  took  as  little 
note  of  the  geography  of  the  isle.  Set  me  out  on  the  same 
journey  again,  and  I  should  scarcely  recognize  a  foot  of  the 
way.  I  saw  trees  and  shrubs  and  grasses,  but  I  could  not 
name  them,  being  as  horv  I  am  no  botanist. 

"Perhaps,  however,  I  mistake  the  purpose  of  suchjournies, 
which  is  not  to  exercise  the  reasoning  faculties,  or  to  add  to 
knowledge,  but  to  unbend,  to  dissipate  thought  and  care,  and 


to  strengthea  the  frame  and  refresh  the  spirits,  by  mere  motion, 
and  variety.  This  is  the  language  which  my  friends  hold  ;  but 
I  confess,  mere  mental  vacuity  gives  me  neither  health  nor 
pleasure.  To  give  time  wings,  my  attention  must  be  fixed  on 
something :  I  must  look  about  me  in  pursuit  of  some  expected 
object ,"  I  must  converse  with  my  companion  on  some  reason- 
able topic ;  I  must  find  some  image  in  my  own  fancy  to  exa- 
mine, or  the  way  is  painfully  tedious.  This  jaunt  to  Rockaway 
has  left  few  agreeable  traces  behind  it.  All  I  remember  with 
any  pleasure,  are  the  appearance  of  the  wide  ocean,  and  the 
incidents  of  bathing  in  its  surges.  Had  I  been  a  botanist,  and 
lighted  upon  some  new  plant ;  a  mineralogist,  and  found  an 
agate  or  a  petrifaction ;  a  naturalist,  and  caught  such  a  butter- 
fly as  I  never  saw  before,  I  should  have  reflected  on  the  jour- 
ney with  no  little  satisfaction.  As  it  was,  I  set  my  foot  in  the 
city  with  no  other  sentiment,  but  that  of  regret,  for  not  having 
employed  these  two  days  in  a  very  different  manner," 

The  incidents  here  so  pleasantly  recorded  are  extremely  tri- 
vial, but  the  whole  serves  to  develope  the  character  of  the  man, 
and  as  is  observed  by  a  friend  when  writing  on  the  subject 
which  now  occupies  me,  '*  in  the  life  of  a  literary  man  charac- 
ter is  biography."  The  same  friend  thus  pursues  the  subject  :. 
*'  How  can  it  be  expected  that  the  life  can  be  embellished  by 
splendid  incident,  when  the  very  profession  of  the  man  allows 
of  no  other  than  what  passes  while  seated  in  solitude  at  his 
writing  desk.  When  existence  is  devoted  to  pensive  musing, 
are  we  called  upon  to  create  incidents,  or  must  it  be  what  it 
professes  to  be,  a  biography  of  intellect  merely  ?  If  we  exa- 
mine this  subject  more  rigidly,  it  will  be  found  that  these  em- 
ployments, the  reception,  and  the  answering  of  letters,  the  reci- 
tal of  friendship  and  antipathies,  and  the  thousand  nameless 
anxieties  which  a  solitary  being  enjoys,  or  suffers,  are  them- 
selves the  incidents  in  the  life  of  a  literary  man.  In  compari- 
son with  these,  the  time  when  a  book  was  published  of.  which 
he  was  the  author,  the  profits  of  the  bookseller  on  the  publica- 
tion of  the  work,  how  heavily  the  first  edition  went  off,  and  the 


68 

irapidity  with  which  it  was  succeeded  by  the  remainder  are  no- 
thing, literally  nothing.     Incidents  themselves,  and  those  of  the 
most  extraordinary  cast,  do  not  always  point  to  character.     An 
artificial  character  is  often  assumed,  and  incidents  favourable 
to  its  establishment  are  employed,  when,  if  the  life  of  a  man 
was  determined  by  this  standard,  a  coward  would  appear  in 
the  habiliments  of  heroism,  and  a  knave  in  the  garb  of  honesty. 
It    is  only    when    life   appears,    in    what   may  be  denomina- 
ted its  undress,   when  there  is  no  motive   to  wear  a  mask, 
that  the  genuine  character  of  man  can  be  discerned.     The  in- 
icidents  of  a  literary   existence  must  be  such  as   are  connected 
with  that  mode  of  being.     If  the  life   of  such  a  man  passes  iqi 
the  solitude  of  his  closet,  and  is  no  otherwise  diminished  than 
by  variegated  studies,  we  say  nothing  more  in  fact,  than  that 
he  was  a  literary  man.     Why  should  we  annex  the  word  in- 
cident, merely  to  some  marvellous  occurrence  such  only  as  the 
traveller,  or  the  warrior  encounters  ?   It  is  impossible  that  life 
can  pass  without  incident  with  any  being  who  inherits  common 
sense.     There  must  be  a  change  of  thought,  what  Johnson 
pompously  calls  a  cession,  and  retrocession  of  intellect.     These 
are  incidents ;  these  are  the  means  by  which  this  solitary  being 
is  enabled  to  build  a  name  for  the  admiration  of  future  ages. 
They   constitute  the   very  materials  with  which  his  works  are 
constructed,  and  those,  if  the  above  objection  has  any  validity, 
are  led  to  expect  that  a  man  would  write  a  novel,  or  compose 
a  poem  in  the  same  manner  in  which  he  would  win  a  battle* 
That  portion  of  time  detached  from  what  the  world  vulgarly 
denominates  incident^  is  therefore  the  precise  period  which  it 
is  the  duty  of  a  biographer  to  display.     Had  his  hero  been  en- 
gaged in  the  contests  of  the  field,  or  of  the  bar,  then  indeed 
can  the  public  look  with  propriety  for  incidents  of  another  sort. 
But  such  is  not  the  employment  of  a  writer,;  solitude  alone  fur- 
nishes him  with  appropriate  incident.     Whatever  other  adven- 
tures might  befal  him  if  he  should  mingle  in  a  battle,  or  the 
bustling  avocations  of  life,  so    far  would  the  relation  of  such 
circumstances  lead  the  public  astray,  as  to  his  reputation  as  a 
writer.     The   incidents  of  an  author,  are  his  ideas,  and  those 
who  look  for  more  than  these  in  the  history  of  an  author,  must 


69 

expect  to  find  what  they  deserve— «disappomtinent.  I  know  it- 
has  been  often  triumphantly  said,  even  by  those  who  admire 
an  author's  work,  what  can  the  life  of  such  a  man  afford  us  ? 
It  is  merely  a  life  barren  of  incident,  as  his  own  works  from 
the  labour  with  which  they  are  constructed,  will  abundantly  tes- 
tify. Now  had  this  intellectual  labour  eventuated  in  the  erec- 
tion of  a  pyramid,  or  in  the  accomplishment  of  a  victory,  they 
would  expect  to  derive  amusement  from  the  biography  of  such 
a  man  ;  but  still  as  he  has  only  produced  a  book  which  they  them- 
selves admire  more  than  they  would  do  either  the  one  or  the 
other,  his  life,  or  more  properly  the  history  of  the  means  by 
which  another  was  able  to  execute  a  work  so  important,  be- 
comes entirely  insignificant.  And  why  is  this  difference  ?  Be- 
cause the  one  is  perhaps  accomplished  by  manual  labour  merely — 
the  brute  labour  and  perhaps  the  predominant  mind  which  direct- 
ed the  work  in  every  stage  of  its  progress,  had  not  been  en- 
gaged in  the  erection  of  the  massy  mai'ble.  Yet  allow  that  the 
man  who  had  planned  the  pyramid,  or  the  victory,  should  him- 
self have  mingled  with  the  labours,  the  probability  is  that  he 
would  have  been  able  to  have  executed  what  he  had  so  muni- 
ficently designed.  What  mankind  can  see  and  feel,  when  the 
minds  of  others  in  the  hands  of  an  architect  begin  to  assume  a 
visible,  tangible  and  permanent  shape,  this  they  are  disposed  to 
admire ;  but  had  these  very  persons  read  how  such  a  pyramid 
could  be  erected,  or  such  a  battle  achieved,  they  would  pro- 
bably have  laughed  at  the  author  as  an  idle  visionary,  unwor- 
thy of  regard.  And  yet  this  very  pyramid,  or  this  very  bat- 
tle, would  have  been  a  practical  comment  on  the  justice  of 
this  despised  author's  remarks.  Incident  then  so  far  as  it  is 
connected  with  our  present  purpose,  means  fairly  this,  a  dis- 
passionate recital  of  the  thoughts  which  passed  in  the  mind  of 
C.  B..B.  It  does  not  mean,  and  it  cannot  mean,  that  he  should 
have  been  personally  engaged  in  those  marvellous  adventures 
which  his  pen  afterwards  describes  ;  for  had  he  acted  in  those 
characters,  he  never  would  have  been  the  author  of  such 
works." 

Ever  fond  of  analysis,  Charles,  even  in  very  early  life,  would 
take  no  opinion  upon  trust.     He  found  in  his  own  mind  abun- 


70 

dant  reason  to  reject  many  of  the  received  opinions  of  mankind, 
and  to  doubt  the  reality  of  many  facts  upon  which  those  opini- 
ons are  founded.  Much  of  his  reading  at  this  time  tended  to 
bewilder  rather  than  enlighten  and  to  confirm  his  predisposition 
to  scepticism.  In  common  with  many  others,  he  imputed  to 
wrong  causes  the  defects  which  are  but  too  apparent  in  exist- 
ing systems.  He  saw  the  wrong  and  injustice  and  evil  which 
exist,  and  instead  of  attributing  them  to  the  ignorance  and 
selfishness  of  individuals,  he  assigned  as  the  cause  the  errors 
or  inefficiency  of  those  codes  which  are  intended  to  enlighten 
or  to  restrain. 

The  gentleman  who  first  undertook  to  fulfil  the  engagements 
entered  into  by  those  who  published  proposals,  and  received 
sul)scriptions  for  these  volumes,  selected  for  republication,  ex- 
tracts from  a  work  written  in  the  fall  and  winter  of  the  year 
1 797,  and  which,  with  the  greater  part  of  the  selections  for  the 
first  volume  were  printed  before  the  present  writer  was  engag- 
ed for  the  work.  The  extracts  he  thus  introduces  :  "  A  princi- 
ple with  him  was  sacred  in  proportion  as  it  accorded  with  his 
preconceived  sensations,  and  these  sensations  as  has  been  alrea- 
dy abundantly  seen,  were  ardently  romantic.  Whatever  of  de- 
lect was  discernible  in  existing  systems,  he  imputed  to  the  wrong 
cause,  which  was  to  some  inherent  ineffectiveness  in  the  sys- 
tem itself,  and  not  to  the  depravity  of  our  common  nature,  so  ca- 
pable of  perverting  the  best  systems  to  the  worst  of  purposes. 
That  all  human  systems  are  fallible,  is  saying  nothing  more  than 
that  they  were  not  all  the  workmanship  of  our  munificent  Cre- 
ator. But  Charles  took  other  ground ;  in  the  overflowing 
philanthropy  of  his  heart,  he  was  prone  to  believe  that  all  these 
injurious  consequences  were  imputable  to  the  laws  of  the  land. 
Finding  a  defect  in  the  law  when  vigorously  analyzed,  and  that 
man  continued  to  perpetrate  outrages  against  it,  he  thought  too 
often  that  these  were  imputable  to  the  law  itself.  Hence  in 
many  of  his  earlier  speculations,  he  reasons  upon  what  mankind 
would  not  do,  had  not  such  authority  interposed  its  injunction. 
His  feelings,  warmed  as  they  always  were  by  human  sufferings, 
aided  this  deception,  until  he  imputes  to  the  law  itself  the  crea- 
tion of  those  v^ivy  evils  which  it  was  designed  most  assiduously 


71 

to  guard  against.  To  this  he  might  probably  have  been  led  by 
the  perusal  of  history.  Tyrants  have  existed  undoubtedly,  and  all 
authority  may  be  called  tyranny  if  the  dreams  of  a  visionary 
are  allowed  the  force  and  authority  of  law. 

Hence  the  ardour  with  which  he  speaks,  unless  the  peculiarity 
of  his  character  is  known,  unless  his  warm  and  sublimated  fancy, 
his  intense  feelings  are  taken  into  consideration,  will  need  an 
apology.  Fortunately  it  may  be  found,  as  has  been  proved  hy 
the  letters  already  given,  in  the  excellence  of  his  heart.  And  it 
is  not  an  uninteresting  speculation  to  observe  how  those  plun- 
ging tenets  and  dangerous  doctrines  which  he  advanced  in  his 
first  entry  into  public  life,  become  gradually  contracted  as  he 
mingles  with  men  and  observes  human  manners.  Subtleties 
that  may  be  defended  by  an  able  logician  in  a  thousand  different 
ways  are  abandoned  when  he  sees  them  brought  to  the  touch 
of  experiment  and  fail. 

To  give  the  reader  a  more  detailed  account,  we  will  refer 
him  to  copious  extracts  from  a  work  written  in  the  fall  and 
winter  of  the  year  1797,  entitled  Alcuin.  He  will  observe  that 
it  is  composed  in  the  form  of  a  dialogue." 

"  I  called  last  evening  on  Mrs.  Carter.  I  had  no  previous 
acquaintance  with  her.  Her  brother  is  a  man  of  letters,  who, 
nevertheless,  finds  little  leisure  from  the  engagements  of  a  toil- 
some profession.  He  scarcely  spends  an  evening  at  home,  yet 
takes  care  to  invite,  specially  and  generally,  to  his  house,  every 
one  who  enjoys  the  reputation  of  learning  and  probity.  His 
sister  became,  on  the  death  of  her  husband,  his  housekeeper. 
She  was  always  at  home.  The  guests  who  came  in  search  of 
the  man,  finding  him  abroad,  lingered  a  little  as  politeness  en- 
joined, but  soon  found  something  in  the  features  and  accents  of 
the  lady,  that  induced  them  to  prolong  their  stay,  for  their  own 
sake  :  nay,  without  any  well-defined  expectation  of  meeting 
their  inviter,  they  felt  themselves  disposed  to  repeat  their  visit. 
We  must  suppose  the  conversation  of  the  lady  not  destitute  of 
attractions;  but  an  additional,  and,  perhaps,  the  strongest  induce- 
ment, was  the  society  of  other  visitants.  The  house  became, 
at  length,  a  sort  of  rendezvous  of, persons  of  different  ages  and 


72 

conctltlons,  but  respectable  for  talents  or  virtues.  A  corti* 
iriodious  apartment,  excellent  tea,  lemonade,  and  ice — and  whole- 
some fruits — were  added  to  the  pleasures  of  instructive  society : 
no  wonder  that  Mrs.  Carter's  coterie  became  the  favourite 
resort  of  the  liberal  and  ingenious. 

"  These  things  did  not  necessarily  imply  any  uncommon  me- 
rit in  the  lady.  Skill  in  the  superintendance  of  a  tea-table,  affa- 
bility and  modesty,  promptness  to  inquire,  and  docility  to  listen, 
were  all  that  were  absolutely  requisite  in  the  mistress  of  the 
ceremonies.  Her  apartment  was  nothing,  perhaps,  but  a 
Lyceum  open  at  stated  hours,  and  to  particular  persons,  who 
enjoyed  gratis,  the  benefits  of  rational  discourse,  and  agreeable 
repasts.  Some  one  was  required  to  serve  the  guests,  direct  the 
menials,  and  maintain,  with  suitable  vigilance,  the  empire  of 
cleanliness  and  order.  This  office  might  not  be  servile,  merely 
because  it  was  voluntary.  The  influence  of  an  unbribed  inclina- 
tion might  constitute  the  whole  difference  between  her  and  a 
waiter  at  an  inn,  or  the  porter  of  a  theatre. 

"  Books  are  too  often  insipid.  In  reading,  the  senses  are  in- 
ert and  sluggish,  or  they  are  solicited  by  foreign  objects.  To 
spur  up  the  flagging  attention,  or  check  the  rapidity  of  its  flights 
and  wildness  of  its  excursions,  are  often  found  to  be  imprac- 
ticable. It  is  only  on  extraordinary  occasions  that  this  faculty 
is  at  once  sober  and  vigorous,  active  and  obedient.  The  rev- 
olutions of  our  minds  may  be  watched  and  noted,  but  can  sel- 
dom be  explained  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  inquisitive.  All 
that  the  caprice  of  nature  has  left  us,  is  to  profit  by  the  casual 
presence  of  that  which  can,  by  no  spell,  be  summoned  or  detained. 

<*  I  hate  a  lecturer.  I  find  little  or  no  benefit  in  listening  to  a 
man  who  does  not  occasionally  call  upon  me  for  my  opinion,  and 
allow  me  to  canvass  ever)'-  step  in  his  argument.  I  cannot,  with 
any  satisfaction,  survey  a  column,  how  costly  soever  its  materials, 
and  classical  its  ornaments,  when  I  am  convinced  that  its  foun- 
dation is  sand  which  the  next  tide  will  wash  away.  I  equally 
dislike  formal  debate,  where  each  man,  however  few  his  ideas, 
is  subjected  to  the  necessity  of  drawing  them  out  to  the  length 
of  a  speech.  A  single  proof,  or  question,  or  hint,  may  be  all 
that  the  state  of  the  controversy,  or  the  reflections  of  the  speak- 


73 

cr,  suggest:  but  this  must  be  amplified  and  iterated,  till  the 
sense,  perhaps,  is  lost  or  enfeebled,  that  he  may  not  fall  below 
the  dignity  of  an  orator.  Conversation,  careless,  and  unfet- 
tered, that  is  sometimes  abrupt  and  sentemious,  sometimes  fu- 
gitive and  brilliant,  and  sometimes  copious  and  declamatory,  is 
a  scene  for  which,  without  being  much  accustomed  to  it,  I  en- 
tertain great  affection.  It  blends,  more  happily  than  any  other 
method  of  instruction,  utility  and  pleasure.  No  wonder  I  was 
desirous  of  knowing,  long  before  the  opportunity  was  afforded 
me,  how  far  these  valuable  purposes  were  accomplished  by  the 
frequenters  of  Mrs.  Carter's  lyceum. 

"  In  the  morning  I  had  met  the  doctor  at  the  bed-side  of  a 
sick  friend,  who  had  strength  enough  to  introduce  us  to  each 
other.  At  parting  I  received  a  special  invitation  for  the  even- 
ing, and  a  general  one  to  be  in  force  at  all  other  times.  At  five 
o'clock  I  shut  up  my  little  school,  and  changed  an  alley  in  the 
city — dark,  dirty,  and  narrow,  as  all  alleys  are — for  the  fresh 
air  and  smooth  footing  of  the  fields.  I  had  not  forgotten  the 
doctor  and  his  lyceum.  Shall  I  go  (said  I  to  myself)  or  shall  I 
not  ?  No,  said  the  pride  of  poverty,  and  the  bashfulness  of  in- 
experience. I  looked  at  my  unpowdered  locks,  my  worsted 
stockings,  and  my  pewter  buckles.  1  bethought  me  of  my  em- 
barrassed air,  and  my  uncouth  gait.  I  pondered  on  the  super- 
ciliousness of  wealth  and  talents,  the  awfulness  of  flowing  mus- 
lin, the  mighty  task  of  hitting  on  a  right  movement  at  entrance, 
and  a  right  posture  in  sitting,  and  on  the  perplexing  mysteries 
of  tea-table  decorum  :  but,  though  confused  and  panic-struck, 
I  was  not  vanquished. 

*'  I  had  some  leisure,  particularly  in  the  evening.  Could  it  be 
employed  more  agreeably  or  usefully  ?  To  read,  to  write,  to 
meditate ;  to  watch  a  declining  moon,  and  the  varying  firma- 
ment with  the  emotions  of  poetry  or  piety — with  the  optics  of 
Dr".  Young,  or  of  De  la  Lande — were  delightful  occupations, 
and  all  at  my  command.  Eight  hours  of  the  twenty-four  v/ere 
consumed  in  repeating  the  names  and  scrawling  the  forms  of  the 
alphabet,  or  in  engraving  on  infantile  memori  3  that  twice  three 
make  six  ;  the  rest  was  employed  in  supplying  an  exhausted, 
rather  than  craving,  stomach  ;  in  sleep,  that  never  knew,  nor  de- 
sired to  know,  the  luxury  of  down,  and  the  pomp  of  tissue  ;  in 

10 


74 

unravelling  the  mazes  of  Dr.  Waring  ;  or  in  amplifying  the  se- 
ducing,  suppositions  of,  '  if  I  were  a  king,'  or,  *  if  I  were  a  lov- 
er.' Few,  indeed,  are  as  happy  as  Alcuin.  What  is  requisite 
to  perfect  my  felicity,  but  the  blessings  of  health,  which  is  in- 
compatible with  periodical  head-aches,  and  the  visits  of  rheuma- 
tism ; — of  peace,  which  cannot  maintain  its  post  against  the  hum 
of  a  school,  the  discord  of  cart-wheels,  and  the  rhetoric  of  a 
notable  landlady  ; — of  competence — my  trade  preserves  me  from 
starving  and  nakedness,  but  not  from  the  discomforts  of  scar- 
city, or  the  disgrace  of  shabbiness.  Money,  to  give  me  leisure  ; 
and  exercise,  to  give  me  health ;  these  are  all  my  lot  denies  :  in 
all  other  respects  I  ^^m  the  happiest  of  mortals.  The  pleasures 
of  society,  indeed,  I  seldom  taste  :  that  is,  I  have  £ew  opportu- 
nities of  actual  intercourse  with  that  part  of  mankind  whose 
ideas  extend  beyond  the  occurrences  of  the  neighbourhood,  or 
the  arrangements  of  their  household.  Not  but  that,  when  I 
want  company,  it  is  always  at  hand.  My  solitude  is  populous, 
whenever  my  fancy  thinks  proper  to  people  it,  and  with  the 
very  beings  that  best  suit  my  taste.  These  beings  are,  perhaps, 
on  account  of  my  slender  experience,  too  uniform,  and  some- 
what grotesque.  Like  some  other  dealers  in  fiction,  I  find  it 
easier  to  give  new  names  to  my  visionary  friends,  and  vary  their 
condition,  than  to  introduce  a  genuine  diversity  into  their  cha- 
racters. No  one  can  work  without  materials.  My  stock  is 
slender.  There  are  times  when  I  feel  a  moment's  regret  that  I 
do  not  enjoy  the  means  of  enlarging  it.  But  this  detail,  it  must 
be  owned,  is  a  little  beside  the  purpose.  I  merely  intended  to 
have  repeated  mj-  conversation  with  Mrs.  Carter,  but  have  wan- 
dered, unawares,  into  a  dissertation  on  my  own  character.  I 
shall  now  return,  and  mention  that  I  cut  short  my  evening  ex- 
cursion, speeded  homeward,  and,  after  japanning  anew  my 
shoes,  brushing  my  hat,  and  equipping  my  body  in  its  best  geer, 
proceeded  to  the  doctor's  house. 

*'  I  shall  not  stop  to  describe  the  company,  or  to  dwell  on  those 
embarrassments  and  awkwardness  always  incident  to  an  unpo- 
lished wight  like  me.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  I  was  in  a  few 
minutes  respectfully  withdrawn  into  a  corner,  and  fortunately  a 
near  neighbour  of  the  lady. 


75 

"  A  week  elapsed  and  I  repeated  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Carter. 
She  greeted  me  in  a  friendly  manner.  1  have  often,  said  she, 
since  I  saw  you,  reflected  on  the  subject  of  our  former  conversa- 
tion. I  have  meditated  more  deeply  than  common,  and  1  be- 
lieve to  more  advantage.  The  hints  that  you  gave  me  1  have 
found  useful  guides. 

"  And  I,  said  I,  have  travelled  farther  than  common,  incited  by 
a  laudable  desire  of  knowledge. 

"Travelled? 

*'  Yes,  I  have  visited  since  I  saw  you,  the  paradise  of  women ; 
and  1  assure  you  have  longed  for  an  opportunity  to  communi- 
cate the  information  that  I  have  collected. 

"Well:  you  now  enjoy  the  opportunity;  you  have  engaged 
it  every  day  in  the  week.  Whenever  you  had  thought  proper 
to  come,  I  could  have  promised  you  a  welcome. 

"  I  thank  you.  I  should  have  claimed  your  welcome  sooner^ 
but  only  returned  this  evening. 

"  Returned  !  Whence,  I  pry'thee  ? 

"  From  the  journey  that  I  spoke  of.  Have  I  not  told  yoti 
that  I  have  visited  the  paradise  of  women  f  The  region,  indeed 
is  far  distant,  but  a  twinkling  is  sufficient  for  the  longest  of  my 
journey?. 

"You  are  somewhat  mysterious,  and  mystery  is  one  of  the. 
many  things  that  abound  in  the  world,  for  which  I  have  an  hear- 
ty aversion. 

"  I  cannot  help  it.  It  is  plain  enough  to  me  and  to  my  good 
genius,  who  when  I  am  anxious  to  change  the  scene,  and  am 
unable  to  perform  it  by  the  usual  means,  is  kindly  present  to  my 
prayers,  and  saves  me  from  three  inconveniences,  of  travelling 
toil,  delay  and  expense.  What  sort  of  vehicle  it  is  that  he  pro- 
vides for  me,  what  intervals  of  space  I  have  overpassed,  and 
what  is  the  situation  of  the  inn  where  I  repose,  relatively  to  this 
city  or  this  orb,  such  is  the  rapidity  with  which  I  move  that  I 
cannot  collect  from  my  own  observation.  I  may  sometimes  re- 
medy my  ignorance  in  this  respect  by  a  comparison  of  circum- 
stances ;  for  example,  the  language  of  the  people  with  whom  I 
passed  most  of  the  last  week,  was  English.  This  was  a  strong 
symptom  of  affinity.  In  other  respects  the  resemblance  was 
sufficiently  obscure.     Methought  I  could  trace  in  their  buildings 


76 

the  knowledge  of  Greek  and  Roman  models:  but  who  can  tell 
that  the  same  images  and  combinations  may  not  occur  to  minds 
distant  and  unacquainted  with  each  other,  but  which  have  been 
subject  to  the  same  enlightened  discipline  ?  In  manners  and  sen- 
timents they  possessed  little  in  common  with  us.  Here  I  con- 
fess my  wonder  was  most  excited,  I  should  have  been  apt  to 
suspect  that  they  were  people  of  some  other  planet,  especially  as 
I  had  never  met  in  my  reading  with  any  intimations  of  the  ex- 
istence of  such  a  people  on  our  own.  But  on  looking  around  me 
the  earth  and  sky  exhibited  the  same  appearances  as  with  us. 
It  once  occurred  to  me,  that  I  had  passed  the  bourne  which  we 
are  all  doomed  to  pass,  and  had  reached  that  spot  from  which, 
as  the  poet  assures  us,  no  traveller  returns.  But  since  I  have 
returned,  I  must  discard  that  supposition.  You  will  say  perhaps 
when  you  are  acquainted  with  particulars  that  it  was  no  more 
than  a  sick  man's  dream,  or  a  poet*s  reverie.  Though  I  myself 
cannot  adopt  this  opinion,  for  who  can  discredit  the  testimony  of 
his  senses,  yet  it  must  be  owned  that  it  would  most  naturally 
suggest  itself  to  another,  and  therefore  I  shall  leave  you  in  pos- 
session of  it. 

*'  So,  you  would  persuade  me,  said  the  lady,  that  the  journey  you 
meant  to  relate,  is  in  your  own  opinion  real,  though  }ou  are  con- 
scious that  its  improbability  will  hinder  others  from  believing  it. 

"  If  my  statement  answer  that  end  be  it  so.  The  worst  judge 
of  the  nature  of  his  own  conceptions^  is  the  enthusiast :  I  have 
my  portion  of  ardour  which  solitude  seldom  fails  to  kindle  into 
blaze.  It  has  drawn  vigour  and  activity  from  exercise.  Whe- 
ther it  transgress  the  limits  which  a  correct  judgment  prescribes 
it  would  be  absurd  to  inquire  of  the  enthusiast  himself.  If  the 
perceptions  of  the  poet  be  as  lively  as  those  of  sense,  it  is  a  su- 
perfluous inquiry  whether  their  objects  exist  really,  and  exter- 
nally. This  is  a  question  which  cannot  be  decided,  even  with 
respect  to  those  perceptions  which  have  most  seeming  and  most 
congruity.  We  have  no  direct  proof  that  the  ordinary  objects 
of  sight  and  touch  have  a  being  independent  of  these  senses. 
When  there  is  no  ground  for  believing  that  those  chairs  and 
tables  have  any  existence  but  in  my  own  sensorium,  it  would  be 
rash  to  affirm  the  reality  of  the  objects  which  I  met,  or  seemed 
to  meet  with  in  my  late  journey.     I  see  and  hear  is  the  utmost 


77 

that  can  be  tinily  said  at  any  time,  all  that  I  can  say  is,  that  I 
saw  and  heard. 

"  Well,  returned  the  lady,  that  as  you  say,  is  a  point  of  small 
importance.  Let  me  know  what  you  saw  and  heard  without 
further  ceremony. 

"  1  was  witness  to  the  transactions  of  a  people,  who  would 
probably  gain  more  of  your  approbation  than  those  around  you 
can  hope  for.  Yet  this  is  perhaps  to  build  too  largely  on  my 
imperfect  knowledge  of  your  sentiments  :  however  that  be,  few 
things  offered  themselves  to  my  observation,  which  I  did  not  see 
reason  to  applaud,  and  to  wonder  at. 

"  My  curiosity  embraced  an  ample  field.  It  did  not  overlook 
the  condition  of  women.  That  negligence  had  been  equally  un- 
worthy of  my  understanding  and  my  heart.  It  was  evening  and 
the  moon  was  present  when  I  lighted,  I  know  not  how  or 
whence,  on  a  smooth  pavement  encompassed  by  structures  that 
appeared  intended  for  the  ai  ommodation  of  those  whose  taste 
led  them  either  to  studious  retirement  or  to  cheerful  conversation. 
I  shall  not  describe  the  first  transports  of  my  amazement,  or 
dwell  on  the  reflections  that  were  suggested  by  a  transition  so 
new  and  uncommon,  or  the  means  that  I  employed  to  penetrate 
the  mysteriousness  that  hung  around  every  object,  and  my  va- 
rious conjectures  as  to  the  position  of  the  Isle,  or  the  condition 
of  the  people  among  whom  I  had  fallen.  1  need  not  tell  how 
in  wandering  from  this  spot,  I  encountered  many  of  both  sexes 
who  were  employed  in  awakening  by  their  notes,  the  neighbouring 
echoes,  or  absorbed  in  musing  silence,  or  engaged  in  sprightly 
debate  ;  how  one  of  them  remarking  as  I  suppose,  the  perplexity 
of  my  looks,  and  the  uncouthness  of  my  garb,  accosted  me  and 
condescended  to  be  my  guide  in  a  devious  tract,  which  conduct- 
ed me  from  one  scene  of  enchantment  to  another.  I  need  not 
tell  how  by  the  aid  of  this  benevolent  conductor,  I  passed  through 
halls  whose  pendent  lustres  exhibited  sometimes  a  groupe  of 
musicians  and  dancers,  sometimes  assemblies  where  state  affairs 
were  the  theme  of  sonorous  rhetoric,  where  the  claims  of  ancient 
patriots  and  heroes  to  the  veneration  of  posterity  were  examin- 
ed, and  the  sources  of  memorable  revolutions  scrutinized,  or 
which  listened  to  the  rehearsals  of  annalist  or  poet,  or  surveyed 
the  labours  of  the  chemist,  or  inspected  the  performances  of  the 


78 

mechanical  inventor.  Need  I  expatiate  on  the  felicity  of  that 
plan,  which  blended  the  umbrage  of  poplars  with  the  murmur 
of  fountains,  enhanced  by  the  gracefulness  of  architecture. 

"  Come,  come,  interrupted  the  lady,  this  perhaps,  may  be 
poetry,  but  though  pleasing  it  had  better  be  dispensed  with.  I 
give  you  leave  to  pass  over  tlitoe  incidents  in  silence :  I  desire 
merely  to  obtain  the  sum  of  your  information,  disembarrassed 
from  details  of  the  mode  in  which  you  acquired  it,  and  of  the 
mistakes  and  conjectures  to  which  your  ignorance  subjected 
you. 

"  Well,  said  I,  these  restraints  it  must  be  owned  are  a  little 
hard,  but  since  you  are  pleased  to  impose  them  I  must  conform 
to  your  pleasure.  After  my  curiosity  was  sufficiently  gratified 
by  what  was  to  be  seen,  I  retired  with  my  guide  to  his  apartment. 
It  was. situated  on  a  terrace  which  overlooked  a  mixed  scene 
of  groves  and  edifices,  which  the  light  of  the  moon  that  had  now 
ascended  the  meridian,  had  rendered  distinctly  visible.  After 
considerable  discourse,  in  which  satisfactory  answers  had  been 
made  to  all  the  inquiries  which  I  had  thought  proper  to  make, 
I  ventured  to  ask,  I  pray  thee  my  good  friend,  what  is  the  con- 
dition of  the  female  sex  among  you?  In  this  evening's  excursion 
I  have  met  with  those,  whose  faces  and  voices  seemed  to  be- 
speak them  women,  though  as  far  as  I  could  discover  they  were 
distinguished  by  no  peculiarities  of  manners  or  dress.  In  those 
assemblies  to  which  you  conducted  me,  I  did  not  fail  to  observe 
that  whatever  was  the  business  of  the  hour,  both  sexes  seemed 
equally  engaged  in  it.  Was  the  spectacle  theatrical?  The 
stage  was  occupied  sometimes  by  men,  sometimes  by  wo- 
men, and  sometimes  by  a  company  of  each.  The  tenor  of  the 
drama  seemed  to  be  followed  as  implicitly  as  if  custom  had 
enacted  no  laws  upon  this  subject.  Their  voices  were  mingled 
in  the  chorusscs :  I  admired  the  order  in  which  the  spectators 
were  arranged.  Women  were,  to  a  certain  degree,  associated 
with  women,  and  men  with  men  ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  magnifi- 
cence and  symmetry  had  been  consulted,  rather  than  a  scrupu- 
lous decorum.  Here  no  distinction  in  dress  was  oljservable,  but 
I  suppose  the  occasion  dictated  it.  Was  science  or  poetry,  or 
art,  the  topic  of  discussion  ?  The  two  sexes  mingled  their  in- 
quiries and  opinions.      The  debate  was  managed  with  ardour 


79 

and  freedom,  and  all  present  were  admitted  to  a  share  in  the 
controversy,  without  particular  exceptions  or  compliances  of 
any  sort.  Were  shadows  and  recesses  sought  by  the  studious 
few  ?  As  far  as  their  faces  were  distinguishable,  meditation  had 
selected  her  votaries  indiscriminately.  I  am  not  unaccustomed 
to  some  degree  of  this  equality  among  my  own  countiymen,  but 
it  appears  to  be  far  more  absolute  and  general  among  you ;  pray 
what  are  your  customs  and  institutions  on  this  head  ? 

"  Perhaps,  replied  my  friend,  I  do  not  see  whither  your  ques- 
tion tends.  What  are  our  customs  respecting  women  r  You  are 
doubtless  apprised  of  the  difference  that  subsists  between  the 
sexes.  That  physical  constitution  which  entides  some  of  us  to 
the  appellation  of  male,  and  others  to  that  of  female  you  must 
know.  You  know  its  consequences.  With  these  our  customs 
and  institutions  have  no  concern ;  they  result  from  the  order  of 
nature,  which  it  is  our  business  merely  to  investigate.  I  sup- 
pose there  are  physiologists  or  anatomists  in  your  countiy.  To 
them  it  belongs  to  explain  this  circumstance  of  animal  exist- 
ence. 

*'  The  universe  consists  of  individuals.  They  are  perishable. 
Provision  has  been  made  that  the  place  of  those  that  perish 
should  be  supplied  by  new  generations.  The  means  by  which 
this  end  is  accomplished,  are  the  same  through  every  tribe  of 
animals.  Between  contemporary  beings  the  distinction  of  sex 
maintains ;  but  the  end  of  this  distinction  is  that  since  each  indi- 
vidual must  perish,  there  may  be  a  continual  succession  of  indi- 
viduals. If  you  seek  to  know  more  than  this,  I  must  refer  you 
to  books  which  contain  the  speculations  of  the  anatomist,  or  to 
the  hall  Avhere  he  publicly  communicates  his  doctrines. 

"It  is  evident,  answered  I,  that  I  have  not  made  myself  un- 
derstood. I  did  not  inquire  into  the  structure  of  the  human  bo- 
dy, but  into  these  moral  or  political  maxims  which  are  founded 
on  the  difference  in  this  structure  between  the  sexes. 

"  Need  I  repeat,  said  my  friend,  what  I  have  told  you  of  the 
principles  by  which  we  are  governed.  I  am  aware  that  there 
are  nations  of  men  universally  infected  by  error,  or  who  at  least 
entertain  opinions  different  from  ours.  It  is  hard  to  trace  all 
the  effects  of  a  particular  belief,  which  chances  to  be  current 
among  a  whole  people.     I  have  entered  into  a  pretty  copious 


80  ^ 

explanation  of  the  rules  to  which  we  conform  in  our  intercourse 
with  each  other,  but  still  perhaps  have  been  deficient. 

"  No,  I  cannot  complain  of  your  brevity  ;  perhaps  my  doubts 
would  be  solved  by  reflecting  attentively  on  the  information  that 
I  have  already  received.  For  that,  leisure  is  requisite  ;  mean- 
while I  cannot  but  confess  my  surprise  that  I  find  among  you 
none  of  those  exterior  differences  by  which  the  sexes  are  dis- 
tinguished by  all  other  nations. 

"  Give  me  a  specimen  if  you  please,  of  those  differences  with 
which  you  have  been  familiar. 

*'  One  of  them,  said  I,  is  dress.  Each  sex  has  a  garb  peculiar 
to  itself.  The  men  and  women  of  our  country  are  more  differ- 
ent from  each  other  in  this  respect,  than  the  natives  of  remotest 
countries. 

**  That  is  strange,  said  my  friend,  why  is  it  so  ? 

"  I  know  not.  Each  one  dresses  as  custom  prescribes.  He 
has  no  other  criterion.  If  he  selects  his  garb  because  it  is  beau- 
tiful or  convenient,  it  is  beautiful  and  commodious  in  his  eyes 
merely  because  it  is  customary. 

"  But  wherefore  does  custom  prescribe  a  different  dress  to 
each  sex  ? 

"  I  confess  I  cannot  tell,  but  most  certainly  it  is  so.  I  must 
likewise  acknowledge  that  nothing  in  your  manners  more  ex- 
cites my  surprise  than  your  uniformity  in  this  particular. 

"  Why  should  it  be  inexplicable  ?  For  what  end  do  we  dress  ? 
Is  it  for  the  sake  of  ornament  ?  Is  it  in  compliance  w^ith  our 
perceptions  of  the  beautiful  ?  These  perceptions  cannot  be  sup- 
posed to  be  the  same  in  all.  But  since  the  standard  of  beauty 
whatever  it  be,  must  be  one  and  the  same :  since  our  notions 
on  this  head  are  considerably  affected  by  custom  and  example, 
and  since  all  have  nearly  the  same  opportunities  and  materials  of 
judgment,  if  beauty  only  were  regarded,  the  differences  among 
us  would  be  trivial.  Differences,  perhaps,  there  would  be.  The 
garU  of  one  being  would,  in  some  degree,  however  small, 
vary  from  that  of  another.  But  what  causes  there  are  that 
should  make  all  women  agree  in  their  preference  of  one  dress, 
and  all  men  in  that  of  another,  is  utterly  incomprehensible  ;  no 
less  than  that  the  difference  resulting  from  this  choice  should 
be  essential  and  conspicuous. 


81 

''  But  ornament  obtains  no  regard  from  us  but  in  subser- 
vience to  utility.  We  find  it  hard  to  distinguish  between  the 
useful  and  beautiful.  When  they  appear  to  differ,  we  cannot 
hesitate  to  prefer  the  former.  To  us  that  instrument  possesses 
an  invincible  superiority  to  every  other  which  is  best  adapted  to 
our  purpose.  Convince  me  that  this  garment  is  of  more  use 
than  that,  and  you  have  determined  my  choice.  We  may  af- 
terwards inquire,  which  has  the  highest  pretensions  to  beauty. 
Strange  if  utility  and  beauty  fail  to  coincide.  Stranger  still,  if 
having  found  them  in  any  instance  compatible,  I  sacrifice  the 
former  to  the  latter.  But  the  elements  of  beauty,  though  per- 
haps they  have  a  real  existence,  are  fleeting  and  inconstant. 
Not  so  those  principles  which  enable  us  to  discover  what  is  use- 
ful. These  are  uniform  and  permanent.  So  must  be  the  results. 
Among  us,  what  is  useful  to  one,  must  be  equally  so  to  another. 
The  condition  of  all  is  so  much  alike,  that  a  stuff  which  deserves 
the  preference  of  one,  because  it  is  obtained  with  least  labour,  be- 
cause its  texture  is  most  durable,  or  most  easily  renewed  or 
cleansed,  is  for  similar  reasons,  preferable  to  all. 

"  But,  said  I,  you  have  various  occupations.  One  kind  of 
stuff  or  one  fashion  is  not  equally  suitr'ble  to  every  employ- 
ment. This  must  produce  a  variety  among  you,  as  it  does  among 
us. 

"  It  does  so.  We  find  that  our  tools  must  vary  with  our 
designs.  If  the  task  requires  a  peculiar  dress,  we  assume  it. 
But  as  we  take  it  up  when  we  enter  the  workshop,  we  of  course 
lay  it  aside  when  we  change  the  scene.  It  is  not  to  be  imagin- 
ed that  we  wear  the  same  garb  at  all  times.  No  man  enters  so- 
ciety laden  with  the  implements  of  his  art.  He  does  not  visit 
the  council  hall  or  the  theatre  with  his  spade  upon  his  shoulder. 
As  little  does  he  think  of  bringing  thither  the  garb  which  he 
wore  in  the  field.  There  are  no  such  peculiarities  of  attitude  or 
gesture  among  us,  that  the  vesture  that  has  proved  most  conve- 
nient to  one  in  walking  or  sitting,  should  be  found  unsuitable  to 
others.  Do  the  differences  of  this  kind  prevalent  among  vou, 
conform  to  these  rules  ?  Since  every  one  has  his  stated  emplov- 
ment,  no  doubt  each  one  has  a  dress  peculiar  to  himself  or  to 
those  of  his  o^vn  profession. 

11 


82 

"  No.  I  cannot  say  that  among  us  this  principle  has  any 
extensive  influence.  The  chief  difference  consists  in  degrees  of 
expensiveness.  By  inspecting  the  garb  of  a  passenger,  we  dis- 
cov^er  not  so  much  the  trade  that  he  pursues,  as  the  amount  of 
his  property.  Few  labour  whose  wealth  allows  them  to  dis- 
perse with  it.  The  garb  of  each  is  far  from  varying  with  the 
hours  of  the  day.  He  need  only  conform  to  the  changes  of  the 
seasons,  and  model  his  appearance  by  the  laws  of  ostentation,  in 
public,  and  by  those  of  ease  in  the  intervals  of  solitude.  These 
principles  are  common  to  both  sexes.  Small  is  the  portion  of 
morality  or  taste,  that  is  displayed  by  either,  but  in  this,  as  in 
most  other  cases,  the  conduct  of  the  females  is  the  least  faulty. 
But  of  all  infractions  of  decorum,  we  should  deem  the  assum- 
ing of  the  dress  of  one  sex  by  those  of  the  other,  as  the  most 
flagrant.  It  so  rarely  happens,  that  I  do  not  remember  to  have 
witnessed  a  single  metamorphosis,  except  perhaps  on  the  stage, 
and  even  there  a  female  cannot  evince  a  more  egregious  negli- 
gence of  reputation  than  by  personating  a  man. 

"  All  this,  replied  my  friend,  is  so  strange  as  to  be  almost 
incredible.  Why  beings  of  the  same  nature,  inhabiting  the 
same  spot,  and  accessible  to  the  same  influences,  should  exhibit 
such  preposterous  differences  is  wonderful.  It  is  not  possible 
that  these  modes  should  be  equally  commodious  or  graceful. 
Custom  may  account  for  the  continuance,  but  not  for  the  origin 
of  manners. 

"  The  wonder  that  you  express,  said  I,  is  in  its  turn  a  sub- 
ject of  surprise  to  me.  What  you  now  say,  induces  me  to  ex- 
pect that  among  you,  women  and  men  are  more  similarly  treat- 
ed than  elsewhere.  But  this  to  me,  is  so  singular  a  spectacle, 
that  I  long  to  hear  it  more  minutely  described  by  you,  and  to 
witness  it  myself. 

"  If  you  remain  long  enough  among  us  you  will  not  want 
the  opportunity.  I  hope  you  will  find  that  every  one  receives 
that  portion  which  is  due  to  him,  and  since  a  diversity  of  sex 
cannot  possibly  make  any  essential  difference  in  the  claims  and 
duties  of  reasonable  beings,  this  difterence  will  never  be  found. 
But  you  call  upon  me  for  descriptions.  With  what  hues  shall  I 
delineate  the  scene  ?  I  have  exhibited  as  distinctly  as  possible 
the  equity  that  governs  us.     Its  maxims  are  of  various  appli- 


83 

cation.  They  regulate  our  conduct,  not  only  to  each  other,  but 
to  the  tribes  of  insects  and  birds.  Every  thing  is  to  be  treated 
as  capable  of  happiness  itself,  or  as  instrumental  to  the  happiness 
of  others. 

"  But  since  the  sexual  differences  is  something,  said  I,  and 
since  you  are  not  guilty  of  the  error  of  treating  different  things 
as  if  they  were  the  same,  doubtless  in  your  conduct  towards 
each  other,  the  consideration  of  sex  is  of  some  weight. 

*'  Undoubtedly.  A  species  of  conduct  is  incumbent  upon  men 
and  women  towards  each  other  on  certain  occasions,  that  can- 
not take  place  between  man  and  man  ;  or  between  women  and 
women.  I  may  properly  supply  my  son  with  a  razor  to  re- 
move superfluous  hairs  from  his  chin,  but  I  may  with  no  less 
propriety  forbear  to  furnish  my  daughter  with  this  impliment,  be- 
cause nature  has  denied  her  a  beard  ;  but  all  this  is  so  evident 
that  I  cannot  but  indulge  a  smile  at  the  formality  with  which 
you  state  it. 

"  But,  said  I,  it  is  the  nature  and  extent  of  this  difference  of 
treatment  that  I  want  to  knoAv. 

"  Be  explicit  my  good  friend.  Do  you  want  a  physiological 
dissertation  on  this  subject  or  not .''  If  you  do,  excuse  me  from 
performing  the  task,  I  am  unequal  to  it. 

"  No.  But  I  will  try  to  explain  myself,  what  for  example  is 
the  difference  which  takes  place  in  the  education  of  the  two 
sexes  ? 

"  There  is  no  possible  ground  for  difference.  Nourishment 
is  imparted  and  received  in  the  same  way.  Their  organs  of 
digestion  and  secretion  are  the  same.  There  is  one  diet,  one 
regimen,  one  mode  and  degree  of  exercise,  best  adapted  to  un- 
fold the  powers  of  the  human  body,  and  maintain  them  for  the 
longest  time  in  full  vigour.  One  individual  may  be  affected  by 
some  casualty  or  disease,  so  as  to  claim  to  be  treated  in  a  man- 
ner different  from  another  individual,  but  this  difference  is  not 
necessarily  connected  with  sex.  Neither  sex  is  exempt  from  in- 
jury, contracted  through  their  own  ignorance,  or  that  of  others. 
Doubtless  the  sound  woman  and  the  sick  man  it  would  be  mad- 
ness to  subject  to  the  same  tasks,  or  the  same  regimen.  But  this 
is  no  less  true  if  both  be  of  the  same  sex.  Diseases,  on  which- 
soever they  fall,  are  curable  by  the  same  meians. 


84 

"  Human  beings  in  their  infancy,  continued  my  friend,  require 
the  same  tendance  and  instruction :  but  does  one  sex  require 
more  or  less,  or  a  different  sort  of  tendance  or  instruction  than 
the  other  ?  Certainly  not.  If  by  any  fatal  delusion,  one  sex 
should  imagine  its  interest  to  consist  in  the  ill  treatment  of  the 
other,  time  would  soon  detect  their  mistake.  For  how  is  the 
species  to  be  continued  ?  How  is  a  woman,  for  example,  to  ob- 
tain a  sound  body,  and  impart  it  to  her  offspring,  but,  among 
other  sources,  from  the  perfect  constitution  of  both  her  parents  ? 
But  it  is  needless  to  argue  on  a  supposition  so  incredible  as  that 
mankind  can  be  benefitted  by  injustice  and  oppression. 

"  Would  we  render  the  limbs  supple,  vigorous  and  active  ? 
And  are  there  two  modes  equally  efficacious  of  attaining  this 
end  ?  Must  we  suppose  that  one  sex  will  find  this  end  of  less 
value  than  the  other,  or  the  means  suitable  to  its  attainment  dif- 
ferent ?   It  cannot  be  supposed. 

"  We  are  born  with  faculties  that  enable  us  to  impart  and  re- 
ceive happiness.  There  is  one  species  of  discipline,  better 
adapted  than  any  other  to  open  and  improve  those  faculties. 
This  mode  is  to  be  practised.  All  are  to  be  furnished  with 
the  means  of  instruction,  whether  these  consist  in  the  direct 
commerce  of  the  senses  with  the  material  universe,  or  in  inter- 
course with  other  intelligent  beings.  It  is  requisite  to  know  the 
reasonings,  actions  and  opinions  of  others,  if  we  seek  the  im- 
provement of  our  own  understanding.  For  this  end  we  must 
see  them,  and  talk  widi  them  if  present,  or  if  distant  or  dead, 
we  must  consult  these  memorials  which  have  been  contrived  by 
themselves  or  others.  These  are  simple  and  intelligible  max- 
ims proper  to  regulate  our  treatment  of  rational  beings.  The 
onlv  circumstance  to  which  we  are  bound  to  attend  is  that  the 
subjects  of  instruction  be  rational.  If  any  one  observe  that  the 
consideration  of  sex  is  of  some  moment,  how  must  his  remark 
be  understood.  Would  he  insinuate  that  because  niy  sex  is 
different  from  yours,  one  of  us  only  can  be  treated  as  rational, 
or  that  though  reason  be  a  property  of  both,  one  of  us  possesses 
less  of  it  than  the  other.  I  am  not  born  among  a  people  who  can 
countenance  so  monstrous  a  doctrine. 

"  No  two  persons  are  entitled  in  the  strictest  sense,  to  the 
same  treatment,  because  «o  two  can   be   precisely    alike.     All 


85 

the  possibilities  and  shades  of  difference,  no  human  capacity  can 
estimate.  Observation  will  point  out  some  of  the  more  consi- 
derable sources  of  variety.  Man  is  a  progressive  being,  he  is 
wise  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  his  ideas,  and  to  the  accura- 
cy with  which  he  compares  and  arranges  them.  These  ideas  are 
received  through  the  inlets  of  his  senses.  They  must  be  suc- 
cessively received.  The  objects  which  suggest  them,  must  be 
present.  There  must  be  time  for  observation.  Hence  the  dif- 
ference is,  in  some  degree,  uniform  between  the  old  and  the 
young.  Between  those,  the  sphere  of  whose  observation  has 
been  limited,  and  those  whose  circle  is  extensive.  Such  causes 
as  these  of  difference  are  no  less  incident  to  one  sex  than  to 
the  other.  The  career  of  both  commences  in  childhood  and 
ignorance.  How  far  and  how  swiftly  they  may  proceed  before 
their  steps  are  arrested  by  disease,  or  death,  is  to  be  inferred 
from  a  knowledge  of  their  circumstances  :  such  as  betide  them 
simply  as  individuals. 

"  It  would,  perhaps,  be  unreasonable  to  affirm  that  the  circum- 
stance of  sex  affects  in  no  degree  the  train  of  ideas  in  the  mind. 
It  is  not  possible  that  any  circumstance,  however  trivial,  should 
be  totally  without  mental  influence ;  but  we  may  safely  affirm  that 
this  circumstance  is  indeed  trivial,  and  its  consequences,  there- 
fore, unimportant.  It  is  inferior  to  most  other  incidents  of  hu- 
man existence,  and  to  those  which  are  necessarily  incident  to 
both  sexes.  He  that  resides  among  hills,  is  a  different  mortal 
from  him  that  dwells  on  a  plain.  Subterranean  darkness,  or  the 
seclusion  of  a  valley,  suggest  ideas  of  a  kind  different  from  those 
that  occur  to  us  on  the  airy  verge  of  a  promontory,  and  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  roaring  waters.  The  influence  on  my  cha- 
racter which  flows  from  my  age,  from  the  number  and  quality 
of  my  associates,  from  the  nature  of  my  dwelling  place,  as  sultry 
or  cold,  fertile  or  barren,  level  or  diversified,  the  art  that  I  cul- 
tivate, the  extent  or  frequency  of  my  excursions  cannot  be  of 
small  moment.  In  comparison  with  this,  the  qualities  which  are 
to  be  ascribed  to  my  sex  are  unworthy  of  being  mentioned.  No 
doubt  my  character  is  in  some  degree  tinged  by  it,  but  the  tinge 
is  inexpressibly  small. 

"  You  give  me  leave  to  conclude  then,  said  I,  that  the  sante 
method  of  education  is  pursued  with  regard  to  both  sexes  ? 


86 

"  Certainly,  returned  my  jjhilosophcr.  Men  possess  powers 
that  may  be  drawn  forth  and  improved  by  exercise  and  discipline. 
Let  them  be  so,  says  om'  system.  It  contents  itself  with  pre- 
scribing certain  general  rules  to  all  that  bear  the  appellation  of  hu- 
man. It  permits  all  to  refresh  and  invigorate  their  frames  by 
frequenting  the  purest  streams  and  the  pleasantest  fields,  and  by 
practising  those  gestures  and  evolutions  that  tend  to  make  us  ro- 
bust and  agile.  It  admits  the  young  to  the  assemblies  of  their 
elders,  and  exhorts  the  elder  to  instruct  the  young.  It  multi- 
plies the  avenues,  and  facilitates  the  access  to  knowledge.  Con- 
versations, books,  instruments,  specimens  of  the  productions  of 
art  and  nature,  haunts  of  meditation,  and  public  halls,  liberal 
propensities  and  leisure,  it  is  the  genius  of  our  system  to  create, 
multiply,  and  place  within  the  reach  of  all.  It  is  far  from  crea- 
tion, and  debasing  its  views,  by  distinguishing  those  who  dwell 
on  the  shore  from  those  that  inhabit  the  hills  ;  the  beings  whom 
a  cold  temperature  has  bleached,  from  those  that  are  embrowned 
by  an  hot. 

"  But  different  persons,  said  I,  have  different  employments. 
Skill  cannot  be  obtained  in  them  without  a  regular  course  of 
instruction.  Each  sex  has,  I  doubt  not,  paths  of  its  own  into 
which  the  others  must  not  intrude.  Hence  must  arise  a  differ- 
ence in  their  education. 

"  Who  has  taught  you,  replied  he,  that  each  sex  must  have  pe- 
culiar employments  ?  Your  doubts  and  your  conjectures  are 
equally  amazing.  One  would  imagine  that  among  you,  one  sex 
nad  more  arms,  or  legs,  or  senses  than  the  other.  'Among  us 
there  is  no  such  inequality.  The  principles  that  direct  us  in  the 
choice  of  occupations  are  common  to  all. 

"  Pray  tell  me,  said  I,  what  these  principles  are. 

"  They  are  abundantly  obvious.  There  are  some  tasks  which 
are  equally  incumbent  upon  all.  These  demand  no  more  skill 
and  strength  than  is  possessed  by  all.  Men  must  provide  them- 
selves by  their  own  eflbrts  with  food,  clothing  and  shelter.  As 
long  as  they  live  together  there  is  a  duty  obliging  them  to  join 
their  skill  and  their  exertions  for  the  common  benefit.  A  cer- 
tain portion  of  labour  will  suppl)'  the  needs  of  all.  This  portion 
then  must  be  divided  among  all.  Each  one  must  acquire  and 
exert  the  skill  which  this  portion  requires.     But  this  skill  and 


87 

this  strength  are  found  by  experience  to  be  moderate  and  easily 
attained.  To  plant  maize,  to  construct  an  arch,  to  weave  a  gar- 
ment, are  no  such  arduous  employments  but  that  all  who  have 
emerged  from  the  infirmity  and  ignorance  of  childhood,  may  con- 
tribute their  efforts  to  the  performance. 

"  But  besides  occupations  which  are  thus  of  immediate  and 
universal  utilit}-,  there  is  an  infinite  variety  of'  others.  The 
most  exquisite  of  all  calamities,  results  from  a  vacant  mind  and 
unoccupied  limbs.  The  highest  pleasure  demands  the  cease- 
less activity  of  both.  To  enjov  this  pleasure  it  is  requisite  to 
find  some  other  occupation  of  our  time,  beside  those  which  are 
enjoined  by  the  physical  necessities  of  our  nature.  Among 
these  there  is  ample  room  for  choice.  The  motives  that  may 
influence  us  in  this  choice,  are  endless.  I  shall  not  undertake 
to  enumerate  them.  You  can  be  at  no  loss  to  conceive  them 
without  my  assistance  :  but  whether  they  be  solitary  or  social, 
whether  speech  or  books,  or  observation,  or  experiment  be  the 
medium  of  instruction,  there  can  be  nothing  in  the  distinction 
of  sex  to  influence  our  determinations,  or  this  influence  is  so  in- 
considerable as  not  to  be  worth  mention. 

"  What,  cried  I,  are  all  obliged  to  partake  of  all  the  labours 
of  tilling  the  ground,  without  distinction  of  rank  and  sex  ? 

"  Certainly.  There  are  none  that  fail  to  consume  some  por- 
tion of  the  product  of  the  ground.  To  exempt  any  from  a  share 
in  the  cultivation,  would  be  an  inexpiable  injustice,  both  to  those 
who  are  exempted  and  those  who  are  not  exempted.  The  ex- 
ercise is  cheerful  and  wholesome.  Its  purpose  is  just  and  ne- 
cessan,-.  Who  shall  dare  to  deny  me  a  p?»rt  in  it?  But  we 
know  full  well  that  the  task,  which,  if  divided  among  many,  is 
easy  and  salubrious,  is  converted  into  painful  and  unwholesome 
drudgery,  by  being  confined  to  a  sex,  what  phrenzy  must  that 
be  which  should  prompt  us  to  introduce  a  change  in  this  respect  ? 
I  cannot  even  imagine  so  great  a  perversion  of  the  understand- 
ing. Common  madness  is  unequal  to  so  monstrous  a  concep- 
tion. We  must  first  not  only  cease  to  be  reasonable,  but  cease 
to  be  men.  Even  that  supposition  is  insufficient,  for  into  what 
class  of  animals  must  we  sink,  before  this  injustice  could  be  rea- 
lized r  Among  beasts  there  are  none  who  do  not  owe  their  ac- 
commodations to  their  own  exertions. 


88 

"  Food  is  no  less  requisite  to  one  sex  than  to  the  other.  As 
the  necessity  of  food,  so  the  duty  of  providing  it  is  common. 
15 ut  the  reason  why  I  am  to  share  in  the  labour,  is  not  merely 
because  I  am  to  share  in  the  fruits.  I  am  a  being  guided  by 
reason  and  susceptible  of  happiness.  So  are  other  men.  It  is 
therefore  a  privilege  that  I  cannot  relinquish,  to  promote  and 
contemplate  the  happiness  of  others.  After  the  cravings  of  ne- 
cessity are  satisfied,  it  remains  for  me,  by  a  new  application  of 
mv  powers,  to  enlarge  the  pleasures  of  existence.  The  inlets  to 
this  pleasure  are  numberless.  What  can  prompt  us  to  take  from 
any  the  power  of  choosing  among  these,  or  to  incapacitate  him 
from  choosing  with  judgment.  The  greater  the  number  of 
those  who  are  employed  in  administering  to  pleasure,  the  greater 
will  be  the  product.  Since  both  sexes  partake  of  this  capacity, 
what  possible  reasons  can  there  be  for  limiting  or  precluding  the 
efforts  of  either  ? 

"What  I  conceive  to  be  unjust,  may  yet  be  otherwise;  but 
my  actions  will  conform  to  my  opinions.  If  j'ou  would  alter 
the  former,  you  must  previously  introduce  a  change  into  the  lat- 
ter. I  know  the  opiaions  of  my  countrymen.  The  tenor  of 
their  actions  will  conform  to  their  notions  of  right.  Can  the 
tim.e  ever  come,  will  the  power  ever  arise,  that  shall  teach  them 
to  endure  the  oppression  of  Injustice  themselves,  or  inflict  it  upon 
others?  No. 

"  But  in  my  opinion,  said  I,  the  frame  of  women  is  too  deli- 
cate, their  limbs  too  minute  for  rough  and  toilsome  occupations. 
I  would  rather  confme  them  to  employments  more  congenial  to 
the  female  elements  of  softness  and  beauty. 

"You  would  rather,  would  you?  I  will  suppose  you  sincere, 
and  inquire  how  you  would  expect  to  obtain  their  consent  to 
your  scheme. 

"The  sentiments,  said  I,  of  a  single  individual,  would  avail 
nothing.  But  if  all  the  males  should  agree  to  prescribe  their 
cmplo\ments  to  women — 

"  What  then  ?  interrupted  my  friend.  There  are  but  two  me- 
thods of  effecting  this  end — by  force  or  by  persuasion.  With  re- 
spect to  force  we  cannot  suppose  human  beings  capable  of  it,  for 
any  moral  purpose ;  but  supposing  them  capable,  we  would 
scarcclv  resort  to  force,  while  our  opponents  are  equal  in  num- 


89 

ber,  strength  and  skill  to  ourselves.  The  efficacy  of  persuasion 
is  equally  chimerical.  That  frailty  of  mind  which  should  make 
a  part  of  mankind  willing  to  take  upon  themselves  a  double  por- 
tion of  the  labour,  and  to  convert  what  is  pleasurable  exercise  to 
all,  into  a  source  of  pain  and  misery  to. a  tew.  But  these  are  vain 
speculations,  let  us  dismiss  them  from  our  notice. 

"  Willingly,  said  I,  we  will  dismiss  these  topics  for  the  sake 
of  one  more  important. 

"  1  presume  then,  said  I,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  marriage 
among  you. 

"  I  do  not  understand  the  term. 

*'  I  use  it  to  express  that  relation  which  subsists  between  two 
human  beings  in  consequence  of  difference  of  sex. 

"  You  puzzle  me  exceedingly,  returned  he.  You  question  me 
as  to  the  existence  of  that  concerning  v/hich  it  is  impossible  for 
you  to  be  ignorant.  You  cannot  at  this  age  be  a  stranger  to  the 
origin  of  human  existence. 

"When  I  had  gotten  thus  far  in  my  narrative,  I  paused. 
Mrs.  Carter  still  continued  to  favour  me  with  her  attention. 
On  observing  mj'  silence  she  desired  me  to  proceed. 

"  I  presume,  said  she,  your  supernatural  conductor  allowed 
you  to  finish  the  conversation.  To  snatch  you  away  just  now, 
in  the  very  midst  of  your  subject,  would  be  doing  you  and  me 
likewise  a  very  unacceptable  office.  1  beseech  you  go  on  with 
the  discourse. 

"  It  may  not  be  proper,  answered  I.  This  is  a  topic  on  which, 
strange  to  tell,  we  cannot  discourse  in  the  same  terms  before  eve- 
ry audience.  The  remainder  of  our  conversation  decorum 
would  not  perhaps  forbid  you  to  read,  but  it  prohibits  you  from 
hearing.  If  you  wish  it,  I  will  give  you  the  substance  of  the 
information  I  collected  on  this  topic  in  writing. 

"  What  is  improper  to  be  said  in  mv  hearing,  said  the  lady, 
it  should  seem  was  no  less  improper  to  be  knowingly  addressed 
to  me  by  the  pen. 

"Then,  said  I,  you  do  not  assent  to  my  offer. 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  refuse  my  assent.  I  merely  object  to  the  dis- 
tinction, that  you  have  raised.  There  are  many  things  impro- 
per to  be  uttered,  or  written,  or  to  be  read,  or  listened  to,  out 
the  impropriety  methinks  must  adhere  to  the  sentiments  them- 

12 


90 

selves,  and  not  result  from  the  condition  of  the  author  or  his 
audience. 

"  Are  these  your  real  sentiments  ? 

"Without  doubt.  But  they  appear  not  to  be  yours.  How- 
ever write  what  you  please,  I  promise  you  to  read  it,  and  to  in- 
form you  of  my  opinion  respecting  it.  Your  scheme,  I  suspect, 
will  not  be  what  is  commonly  called  marriage,  but  something  in 
your  opinion,  better.  This  footing  is  a  dubious  one.  Take 
care,  it  is  difficult  to  touch  without  overstepping  the  verge. 

*'  Your  caution  is  reasonable.  I  believe  silence  will  be  the 
safest.  You  will  excuse  me  therefore  from  taking  up  the  pen 
on  this  occasion.  The  ground  you  say,  and  I  believe,  is  peri- 
lous.    It  will  be  most  prudent  to  avoid  it. 

"  As  you  please,  but  remember  that  though  I  may  not  ap- 
prove of  what  you  write,  j-our  silence  I  shall  approve  still  less. 
If  it  be  false,  it  will  enable  me  at  least  to  know  you,  and  I  shall 
thereby  obtain  an  opportunity  of  correcting  your  mistakes. 
Neither  of  these  purposes  are  trivial.  Are  you  not  aware  that 
no  future  declaration  of  yours  will  be  more  unfavourable  than 
what  you  have  just  said,  that  silence  will  be  most  safe.  You 
are  afraid  no  doubt,  of  shocking  too  greatly  my  prejudices  j  but 
you  err.  I  am  certainly  prepossessed  in  favour  of  the  system  of 
marriage,  but  the  strength  of  this  prepossession  will  appear  only 
in  the  ardour  of  my  compassion  for  contrary  opinions,  and  the 
eagerness  of  my  endeavours  to  remove  them. 

"  You  would  condescend  then,  said  I,  to  reason  on  the  sub- 
ject, as  if  it  were  possible  that  marriage  was  an  erroneous  in- 
stitution ;  as  if  it  were  possible  that  any  one  could  seriously 
maintain  it  to  be,  without  entitling  himself  to  the  imputation  of 
the  lowest  profligacy.  Most  women  would  think  that  the  op- 
ponent of  marriage,  either  assumed  the  character  for  the  most 
odious  and  selfish  purposes,  and  could  therefore  only  deserve  to 
be  treated  as  an  assassin :  to  be  detested  and  shunned,  or  if  he 
were  sincere  in  his  monstrous  faith,  that  all  efforts  to  correct  his 
mistakes  would  avail  nothing  with  respect  to  the  patient,  but 
might  endanger  the  physician  by  exposing  her  to  the  illusions  oi 
sophistry  or  the  contagion  of  passion. 

"  I  am  not  one  of  these,  said  the  lady.     The  lowest  stupidit} 
only  can  seek  its  safety  in  shutting  its  ears.     We  may  call  that 


91 

sophistry,  which  having  previously  heard,  it  fails  to  produce 
conviction.  Yet  sophistry  perhaps  implies  not  merely  fallacious 
reasoning,  but  a  fallaciousness  of  which  the  reasoner  himself  is 
apprised.  If  so,  few  charges  ought  to  be  made  with  more  cau- 
tion. But  nothing  can  exceed  the  weakness  that  prevents  us 
from  attending  to  what  is  going  to  be  urged  against  our  opi- 
nions, merely  from  the  persuasion  that  what  is  adverse  to  our 
preconceptions  must  be  false.  Yet  there  are  examples  of  this 
folly  among  Our  acquaintance.  You  are  wrong,  said  I  lately  to 
one  of  these,  if  you  will  suffer  me,  I  will  convince  you  of  your 
error.  You  may  save  yourself  the  trouble,  she  answered.  You 
may  torment  me  with  doubts,  but  why,  when  I  see  the  truth 
clearly  already,  should  I  risque  the  involving  of  it  in  obscurity  ? 
I  repeat,  I  am  not  of  this  class.  Force  is  to  be  resisted  by  force, 
or  eluded  by  flight :  but  he  that  argues,  whatever  be  his  motives, 
should  be  encountered  with  argument.  He  cannot  commit  a 
greater  error  than  to  urge  topics,  the  insufiiciency  of  which  is 
known  to  himself.  To  demonstrate  this  error  is  as  worthy  of 
truth  as  any  other  province.  To  sophistry,  in  any  sense  of  the 
term,  the  proper  antidote  is  argument.  Give  me  leave  to  take 
so  much  interest  in  your  welfare,  as  to  desire  to  see  your  er- 
rors corrected,  and  to  contribute  what  is  in  my  power  to  that 
end.  If  I  know  myself  so  well  as  sometimes  to  listen  to  others 
in  the  hope  of  profiting  by  their  superior  knowledge  or  sagacity, 
permit  me  likewise  to  be  just  to  myself  in  other  respects,  and  to 
believe  myself  capable  sometimes  of  pointing  out  his  mistakes  to 
another. 

"  You  seem,  said  I,  to  think  it  certain  that  we  differ  in  opinion 
upon  this  topic. 

"  No.  I  merely  suspect  that  we  do.  A  class  of  reasoners 
has  lately  arisen,  who  aim  at  the  deepest  foundation  of  civil  so- 
ciety. Their  addresses  to  the  understanding  have  been  urged 
with  no  despicable  skill.  But  this  was  insufficient,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  subdue  our  incredulity,  as  to  the  effects  of  their  new  max- 
ims, by  exhibiting  those  effects  in  detail,  and  winning  our  assent 
to  their  truth  by  engrossing  the  fancy  and  charming  the  affections. 
The  journey  that  you  have  lately  made,  I  merely  regard  as  an 
excursion  into  their  visionary  world.  I  can  trace  the  argument 
of  the  parts  which  you  have  unfolded,  with  those  which  are  yet 


92 

to  come,  and  can  pretty  well  conjecture  of  what  hues,  and  lines, 
and  figures,  the  remainder  of  tiie  picture  is  intended  to  consist. 

"'[hen,  said  I,  the  task  that  I  enjoined  on  myself  is  superflu- 
ous. You  are  apprised  of  all  that  I  mean  to  sav  on  the  topic  of 
marriage,  and  have  already  laid  in  an  ample  stock  of  disappro- 
bation for  my  service. 

"  I  frankly  confess  that  I  expect  not  to  approve  the  matter  of 
vour  narrative,  however  pleased  I  may  be  with  the  manner. 
Nevertheless  I  wish  you  to  execute  your  first  design,  that  I  may 
be  able  to  unveil  the  fallacv  of  your  opinions,  and  rescue  one 
whom  I  have  no  reason  to  disrespect,  from  specious  but  fatal  il- 
lusions. 

"  Your  purpose  is  kind.  It  entitles  you  at  least  to  my  thanks. 
Yet  to  say  truth,  I  did'  not  at  first  despair  of  your  confidence  with 
me  in  some  of  mv  opinions.  I  imagined  that  some  of  the  evils 
of  marriage  had  not  escaped  you.  I  recollect  that  during  our 
last  conversation,  you  arraigned  with  great  earnestness  the  in- 
justice of  condemning  women  to  obey  the  will,  and  depend  upon 
the  bounty  of  father  or  husband. 

"  Come,  come,  interrupted  the  lady,  with  a  severer  aspect,  if 
you  mean  to  preserve  my  good  opinion,  you  must  tread  on  this 
ground  with  more  caution.  Remember  the  atrociousness  of  the 
charge  you  would  insinuate.  What!  Because  a  just  indignation 
at  the  iniquities  that  are  hourly  committed  on  one  half  of  the 
human  species  rises  in  my  heart,  because  I  vindicate  the  plain- 
est dictates  of  justice,  and  am  willing  to  rescue  so  large  a  portion 
of  human-kind,  from  so  destructive  a  bondage:  a  bondage  not 
only  of  the  hands,  but  of  the  understanding ;  which  divests  them 
of  all  those  energies  which  distinguish  men  from  the  basest  ani- 
mals, destroys  all  perception  of  moral  rectitude,  and  reduces  its 
subjects  to  so  calamitous  a  state,  that  thev  adore  the  tyranny 
that  rears  its  crest  over  them,  and  kiss  the  hand  that  loads  them 
with  ignominy  !  When  I  demand  an  equality  of  conditions 
among  beings  that  equally  partake  of  the  same  divine  reason, 
would  you  rashly  infer  that  I  was  an  enemy  to  the  institution  of 
marriage  itself?  Where  shall  we  look  for  human  beings  who 
svirpass  all  others  in  depravity  and  wretchedness?  Are  they  not 
to  be  found  in  the  haunts  of  female  licentiousness.  If  their  vice 
admits  of  a  darker  hue,  it  would  recei^■e  it  from  the  circumstance 


95 

of  their  being  dissolute  by  theoiy ;  of  their  modelling  voluptu- 
ousness into  a  speculative  system.  Yet  this  is  the  charge  you 
would  make  upon  me.  You  would  brand  me  as  an  enemy  to 
marriage,  not  in  the  sense  that  a  vestal,  or  widow,  or  chaste,  but 
deserted  maid  is  an  enemy  ;  not  even  in  that  sense  in  which  the 
abandoned  victims  of  poverty  and  temptation  are  enemies,  but 
in  the  sense  of  that  detestable  philosophy  which  scoffs  at  the  ma- 
trimonial institution  itself,  which  denies  all  its  pretensions  to 
sanctit}',  which  consigns  us  to  the  guidance  of  a  sensual  impulse, 
and  treats  as  phantastic  or  chimericui,  the  sacred  charities  of 
husband,  son,  and  brother.  Beware.  Imputations  of  this  kind 
are  more  fatal  in  the  consequences  than  you  may  be  able  to  con- 
ceive. They  cannot  be  indifferent  to  me.  In  drawing  such  in- 
ferences, you  would  hardly  be  justified  by  the  most  disinterested 
intentions. 

"  Such  inferences,  my  dear  Madam,  it  is  far  from  my  inten- 
tion to  draw.  I  cannot  but  think  your  alarms  unnecessary.  II  I 
am  an  enemy  to  marriage  far  be  it  from  me  to  be  the  champion 
of  sensuality.  I  know  the  sacredness  of  this  word  in  the  opinions 
of  mankind;  I  know  how  liable  to  be  misunderstood  are  the  ef- 
forts of  him  who  should  labour  to  explode  it.  But  still,  is  it  not 
possible  to  define  with  so  much  perspicuity,  and  distinguish  with 
so  much  accuracy  as  to  preclude  all  possibility  of  mistake  :  I  be- 
lieve this  possible.  I  deem  it  easy  to  justify  the  insinuation  that 
you  yourself  are  desirous  of  subverting  the  marriage  state. 

"  Proceed,  said  the  lady.  Men  are  at  liberty  to  annex  to  words 
what  meaning  they  think  proper.  What  should  hinder  you,  if  you 
so  please,  from  saying  that  snow  is  of  the  deepest  black  ?  Words 
are  arbitrary.  The  idea  that  others  annex  to  the  word  black,  you 
are  at  liberty  to  transfer  to  the  word  white.  But  in  the  use  of  this 
privilege  you  must  make  your  account  in  not  being  understood, 
and  in  reversing  all  the  purposes  of  language. 

"  Well,  said  I,  that  is  yet  to  appear.  Meanwhile,  I  pray  you, 
what  are  your  objections  to  the  present  system  ? 

''  My  objections  are  weighty  ones.  I  disapprove  of  it,  in  the 
first  place,  because  it  renders  the  female  a  slave  to  the  man.  It 
enjoins  and  enforces  submission  on  her  part  to  the  will  of  her  hus- 
band. It  includes  a  promise  of  implicit  obedience  and  unaltera- 
ble affection.  Secondly,  it  leaves  the  woman  destitute  of  proper- 


94 

ty.  Whatever  she  previously  possesses,  belongs  absolutely  to  the 
man. 

"  This  representation  seems  not  to  be  a  faithful  one,  said  I, 
Marriage  leaves  the  wife  without  property,  you  say.  How  comes 
it  then  that  she  is  able  to  subsist  ?  You  will  answer,  perhaps,  that 
her  sole  dependence  is  placed  upon  the  bounty  of  her  husband. 
But  this  is  surely  an  error.  It  is  by  virtue  of  express  laws  that  all 
property  subsists.  But  the  same  laws  sanction  the  title  of  a  wife 
to  a  subsistence  proportioned  to  the  estate  of  her  husband.  But  if 
law  were  silent,  custom  would  enforce  this  claim.  The  husband 
is  in  reality  nothing  but  a  steward.  He  is  bound  to  make  provi- 
sion for  his  wife,  proportionately  to  the  extent  of  his  own  reve- 
nue. This  is  a  practical  truth,  of  which  every  woman  is  sensible. 
It  is  this  that  renders  the  riches  of  an  husband  a  consideration  of 
so  much  moment  in  the  eye  of  a  prudent  woman.  To  select  a 
wealthy  partner  is  universally  considered  as  the  certain  means  of 
enriching  ourselves,  not  less  when  the  object  of  our  choice  is  an 
husband  than  when  it  is  a  wife. 

**  Notwithstanding  all  this,  said  the  lady,  you  will  not  pretend 
to  affirm  that  marriage  renders  the  property  common. 

"  May  1  not  truly  assert,  rejoined  I,  that  the  wife  is  legally  en- 
titled to  her  maintenance  ? 

Yes,  she  is  entitled  to  food,  raiment,  and  shelter,  if  her  hus- 
band can  supply  them.  Suppose  a  man  in  possession  of  five  thou- 
sand pounds  a  year :  from  this  the  wife  is  entitled  to  mainte- 
nance :  but  how  shall  the  remainder  be  administered  ?  Is  not  the 
power  of  the  husband,  over  this,  absolute  ?  Cannot  he  reduce 
himself  to  poverty  to-morrow  ?  She  may  claim  a  certain  portion 
of  what  she  has,  but  he  may,  at  his  own  pleasure,  divest  himself 
of  all  that  he  has.  He  may  expend  it  on  what  purposes  he  pleas- 
es. It  is  his  own,  and,  for  the  use  of  it,  he  is  responsible  to  no 
tribunal ;  but  in  reality,  this  pompous  claim  of  his  wife  amounts, 
in  most  cases,  to  nothing.  It  is  the  discretion  of  the  husband  that 
must  decide,  as  to  the  kind  and  quantity  of  that  provision.  He 
may  be  niggardly  or  prodigal,  according  to  the  suggestions  of  his 
own  caprice.  He  may  hasten  to  poverty  himself,  or  he  may  live, 
and  compel  his  partner  to  live,  in  the  midst  of  wealth  as  if  he 
were  labouring  under  extreme  indigence.  In  neither  case  has  the 
wife  anv  rcmedv. 


95 

"  But  recollect,  my  good  friend,  the  husband  Is  commonly  the 
original  proprietor.  Has  the  wife  a  just  claim  to  that  which,  be- 
fore marriage,  belonged  to  her  spouse  ? 

"  Certainly  not.  Nor  is  it  less  true  that  the  husband  has  no 
just  claim  to  that  which,  previously  to  marriage,  belonged  to  the 
wife.  If  property  were,  in  all  respects,  justly  administered,  if 
patrimonies  were  equally  divided  among  offspring,  and  if  the  va- 
rious avenues  that  lead  to  the  possession  of  property  were  equal- 
ly accessible  to  both  sexes,  it  would  be  found  as  frequently  and 
extensively  vested  in  one  son  as  in  the  other.  Marriage  is  pro- 
ductive of  no  consequences  which  justify  the  transfer  of  what  ei- 
ther previously  possessed  to  the  other.  The  idea  of  common  pro- 
perty is  absurd  and  pernicious  ;  but  even  this  is  better  than  po- 
verty and  dependence  to  which  the  present  system  subjects  the 
female. 

"  But,  said  I,  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that  the  household  is 
common.  One  dwelling,  one  table,  one  set  of  servants  mayjustly 
be  sustained  by  a  single  fund.  This  fund  may  be  managed  by 
common  consent.  No  particle  of  expense  may  accrue  without  the 
concurrence  of  both  parties,  but  if  there  be  a  difference  of  opini- 
on, some  one  must  ultimately  decide.  Why  should  not  this  be 
the  husband  ?  You  will  say  that  this  would  be  unjust.  I  answer 
that,  since  it  is  necessary  that  power  should  be  vested  in  one  or 
the  other  the  injustice  is  inevitable.  An  opposite  procedure 
would  not  diminish  it.  If  this  necessary  power  of  deciding  in 
cases  of  disagreement  were  lodged  in  the  wife,  the  injustice 
would  remain. 

"  But  a  common  fund  and  a  common  dwelling  is  superfluous. 
Why  is  marriage  to  condemn  two  human  beings  to  dwell  under 
the  same  roof  and  to  eat  at  the  same  table,  and  to  be  served  by 
the  same  domestics  ?  This  circumstance  alone  is  the  source  of  in- 
numerable ills.  Familiarity  is  the  sure  destroyer  of  reverence. 
All  the  bickerings  and  dissentions  of  a  married  life  flow  from  no 
other  source  than  that  of  too  frequent  communication.  How  dif- 
ficult is  it  to  introduce  harmony  of  sentiment,  even  on  topics  of 
importance,  between  two  persons  ?  But  this  difficulty  is  increased 
in  proportion  to  the  number  and  frequency,  and  the  connection 
with  our  private  and  personal  deportment  of  those  topics. 


96 

"  If  two  persons  are  condemned  to  cohabitation,  there  must 
doubtless  be  mutual  accommodation.  But  let  us  understand  this 
term.  No  one  can  sacrifice  his  opinions.  What  is  incumbent  up- 
on him,  in  certain  cases,  is  only  to  forbear  doing  what  he  esteems 
to  be  right.  Now  that  situation  is  most  eligible  in  which  we  are 
at  libei-ty  to  conform  to  the  dictates  of  our  judgment.  Situations 
of  a  different  kind  will  frequently  occur  in  human  life.  INIany  of 
them  exist  without  any  necessity.  Such,  in  its  present  state,  i* 
matrimony. 

"  Since  an  exact  agreement  of  opinions  is  impossible,  and  since 
the  intimate  and  constant  intercourse  of  a  married  life  requires 
either  that  the  parties  should  agree  in  their  opinions,  or  that  one 
should  forego  his  own  resolutions,  what  is  the  consequence  ? 
Controversies  will  incessantly  arise,  and  must  be  decided.  If  ar- 
gument be  insufficient,  recourse  must  be  had  to  legal  authoritv, 
to  brute  force,  or  servile  artifices,  or  to  that  supez'stition  that  has 
bound  itself  by  a  promise  to  obey.  These  might  be  endured  if 
tliey  were  the  necessary  attendants  of  marriage  ;  but  they  are 
spurious  additions.  Marriage  is  a  sacred  institution,  but  it  would 
argue  the  most  pitiful  stupidity  to  imagine  that  all  those  circum- 
stances which  accident  and  custom  have  annexed  to  it  are  like- 
wise sacred.  Marriage  is  sacred,  but  iniquitous  laws,  by  making 
ita  compact  of  slavery,  by  imposing  impracticable  conditions  and 
extorting  impious  promises  have,  in  most  countries,  converted  it 
into  something  flagitious  and  hateful. 

"  But  the  marriage  promises,  said  I,  amount  to  this,  that  the 
parties  shall  love  each  other  till  deatli.  Would  you  impose  no  re- 
straint on  wayward  inclinations  ?  Shall  this  contract  subsist  no 
longer  than  suits  the  wishes  of  either  party  ?  Would  you  grant, 
supposing  you  exalted  into  a  law-giver,  an  unlimited  power  of 
divorces  ? 

"  Without  the  least  doubt.  What  shadow  of  justice  is  there  in 
restraining  mankind  in  this  particular.  My  liberty  is  precious, 
but  of  all  the  ways  in  which  my  lil)erty  can  be  infringed,  and  my 
actions  be  subjected  to  force,  heaven  deliver  me  from  this  species 
of  constraint.  It  is  impossible  to  do  justice  to  mv  feelings  on  this 
occasion.  Olferme  any  alternative,  condemn  me  to  the  workshop 
of  an  Egyptian  task-master,  imprison  me  in  chains  of  darkness, 
tear  mc  into  pieces,  subject  me  to  the  endless  repetition  of  toil  and 


97 

♦tripes  and  contumelies,  but  allow  me,  I  beseech  you,  the  liberty, 
at  least,  of  conjugal  choice.  If  you  prohibit  my  intercourse  with 
one  on  whom  my  heart  dotes,  I  shall  not  repine,  the  injury  is  in- 
expressibly trivial.  There  is  scarcely  an  inconvenience  that  will 
be  worth  enduring  for  the  sake  of  this  prohibited  good.  My 
resources  must  be  few,  indeed,  if  they  do  not  afford  me  consola- 
tion under  this  injustice.  But  if  you  subject  me  to  the  controul 
and  the  nauseous  caresses  of  one  whom  I  hate,  or  despise,  you 
indeed  inflict  a  calamity  which  nothing  can  compensate.  There 
is  no  form  which  your  injustice  can  assume  more  detestable  and 
ugly  than  this. 

"  According  to  present  modes,  the  servitude  of  wives  is  the 
most  entire  and  unremitting.  She  lays  aside  her  fetters  not  for  a 
moment.  Thei-e  is  not  an  action,  however  minute,  in  which  her 
tyrant  does  not  assume  the  power  of  prescribing.  His  eyes  are 
eternally  upon  her.  There  is  no  period,  however  short,  in  which 
she  is  exempt  from  his  cognizance  ;  no  recess,  however  sacred 
or  mysterious,  into  which  he  does  not  intrude.  She  cannot  che- 
rish the  friendship  of  a  human  being  without  his  consent.  She 
cannot  dispense  a  charitable  farthing  without  his  connivance. 
The  beings  who  owe  their  existence  to  her,  are  fashioned  by  his 
sole  and  despotic  will.  All  their  dignity  and  happiness  is  lodged 
in  the  hands  that  superintend  their  education  and  prescribe  their 
conduct  during  the  important  periods  of  infancy  and  youth.  But 
how  they  shall  exist,  what  shall  be  taught,  and  what  shall  be 
withholden  from  them,  what  precepts  they  shall  hear,  and  what 
examples  they  shall  contemplate,  it  is  his  province  to  decide. 

"  An  husband  is  proposed  to  me.  I  ruminate  on  these  facts. 
I  ponder  on  this  great  question.  Shall  I  retain  my  liberty  or 
not  ?  Perhaps  the  evils  of  my  present  situation,  the  pressure  of 
poverty,  the  misjudging  rule  of  a  father,  or  the  rare  qualities  of 
him  who  is  proposed  to  me,  the  advantages  of  change  of  place  or 
increase  of  fortune,  may  outweigh  the  evils  of  this  state.  Perhaps 
I  rely  on  the  wisdom  of  my  partner.  I  am  assured  that  he  jvill, 
in  all  cases,  trust  to  nothing  but  the  force  of  reason  ;  that  his  ar- 
guments will  always  convince,  or  his  candour  be  accessible  to  con- 
viction ;  that  he  will  never  make  his  appeal  to  personal  or  legal 
coersion,  but  allow  me  the  dominion  of  my  own  conduct  when  he 

ir> 


98 

cannot  persuade  me  to  compliance  with  his  wishes.  These  conjr 
s.iderations  may  induce  me  to  embrace  the  offer, 

"  If  I  am  not  deceived ;  if  no  inauspicious  revolution  take 
place  in  his  character ;  if  circumstances  undergo  no  material  al- 
teration J  if  I  continue  to  love  and  to  confide  as  at  the  first,  it  is 
well.  I  cannot  object  to  a  perpetual  alliance,  provided  it  be  vo- 
lontary.  There  is  nothing,  in  a  choice  of  this  kind,  that  shall  ne- 
cessarily cause  it  to  expire.  This  alliance  will  be  durable  in  pro- 
portion to  the  wisdom  with  which  it  was  formed,  and  the  fore- 
sight that  was  exerted. 

"  But  if  a  change  take  place,  if  I  were  deceived,  and  find  inso- 
lence and  peevishness,  rigour  and  command,  where  I  expected 
nothing  but  sweet  equality  and  unalterable  complaisance  ;  or  if 
the  character  be  changed,  if  time  introduce  new  modes  of  think- 
ing and  new  systems  of  action  to  which  my  understanding  refuses 
to  assimilate,  what  is  the  consequence  ?  Shall  I  not  revoke  my 
choice  ? 

"The  hardships  of  constraint  in  this  respect  are  peculiarly  se- 
vere upon  the  female.  Her's  is  the  task  of  submission.  In  every 
case  of  disagreement  it  is  she  that  must  yield.  The  man  still  re- 
tains, in  a  great  degree,  his  independence.  In  the  choice  of  his 
abode,  his  occupations,  his  associates,  his  tasks  and  his  pleasures, 
he  is  guided  by  his  own  judgment.  The  conduct  of  his  wife,  the 
treatment  of  her  offspring,  and  the  administration  of  her  property 
are  consigned  to  him.  All  the  evils  of  constraint  are  aggravated 
by  the  present  system.  But  if  the  system  were  reformed,  if  the 
duties  of  marriage  extended  to  nothing  but  occasional  interviews 
and  personal  fidelity,  if  each  retained  power  over  their  own  ac- 
tions in  all  cases  not  immediatel\'  connected  with  the  sensual  in- 
tercourse, the  obligation  to  maintain  this  intercourse,  after  prcfei*- 
cnce  had  ceased,  would  be  eminently  evil.  Less  so,  indeed,  than 
in  the  present  state  of  marriage,  but  still  it  would  be  fertile  in  mi- 
sery. Have  you  any  objections  to  this  conclusion  ? 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  many.  You  know  what  is  common- 
ly urged  in  questions  of  this  kind.  Men,  in  civil  society  are,  in 
most  cases,  subjected  to  a  choice  of  evils.  That  which  is  injuri- 
ous to  one,  or  a  few  individuals,  may  yet  be  beneficial  to  the 
whole.  In  an  estimate,  sufficiently  comprehensive,  the  good  may 
overweigh  the  ill.  You  have  drawn  a  forcible  picture  of  the  in- 


99 

conveniences  attending  the  prohibition  of  divorces.  Perhr.ps  it 
entire  hberty  in  this  respect  were  granted,  the  effects  might  con- 
stitute a  scene  unspeakably  more  disastrous  than  any  thing  hi- 
therto conceived. 

*'  As  how,  I  pray  you  ? 

*'  Men  endeavour  to  adhere  with  a  good  grace  to  a  contract 
which  they  cannot  infringe.  That  which  is   commonly  termed 
love  is  a  vagrant  and  wayward  principle.    It  pretends  to  spurn 
at  those  bounds  which  decorum  and  necessity  prescribe  to  it, 
and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  is  tamely  and  rigidly  observant  of 
those  bounds.   Phis  passion  commonly  betides  us  when  we  have 
previously  reasoned  ourselves  into  the  belief  of  the  propriety  of 
entertaining  it.  It  seldom  visits  us  but  at  the  sober  invitation  of 
our  judgment.  It  speedily  takes  its  leave  when  its  presence  be- 
comes uneasy,  and  its  gratification  ineligible  or  impossible.  Youth 
and  beauty,  it  is  said,  have  a  tendency  to  excite  this  passion,  but 
suppose  those  qualities  are  discovered  in  a  sister,  what  becomes 
of  this  tendency  ?  Suppose  the  possession  to  be  already  a  wife. 
If  chance  place  us  near  an  object  of  uncommon  loveliness  and 
we  are  impressed  with  a  notion  that  she  is  single  and  disenga- 
ged, our  hearts  may  be  in  some  danger.  But  suppose  better  in- 
formation has  precluded  this  mistake,  or  that  it  is  immediately 
rectified,  the  danger  in  most  cases,  is  at  an  end.    I  am  married 
and  have  no  power  to  dissolve  the  contract.  Will  this  considera- 
tion have  no  power  over  my  sensations  in  the  presence  of  a  stran- 
ger ?  If  care,  accomplishments,  and  inimitable  loveliness  attract 
my  notice,  after  my  lot  is  decided,  and  chained  me  to  one,  with 
whom  the  comparison  is  disadvantageous,  I  may  indulge  a  faint 
wish  that  my  destiny  had  otherwise  decreed ;  a  momentary  sigh 
at  the  irrevocableness  of  my  choice,  but  my  regrets  will  instantly 
vanish.  Recollecting  that  my  fate  is  indeed  decided,  and  my  lot 
truly  irrevocable,  I  become  cheerful  and  calm. 

"  It  is  true  that  harmony  cannot  be  expected  to  subsist  for  ever 
and  in  every  minute  instance  between  two  persons,  but  how  far 
will  the  consciousness  that  the  ill  is  without  remedy,  and  the  con- 
dition of  affairs  unchangeable,  tend  to  foster  affection  and  gene- 
rate mutual  compliance.  Human  beings  are  distinguished  by  no- 
thing more  than  by  a  propensity  to  imitation.  They  contract  af- 
fection and  resemblance  with  those  persons  or  objects  that  arc 


100 

placed  near  them.  I'he  force  of  habit,  in  this  respect,  is  admira- 
ble. Even  inanimate  objects  become,  through  the  influence  of 
this  principle,  necessary  to  our  happiness.  They  that  are  constant 
companions  fail  not  to  become,  in  most  respects,  alike,  and  to  be 
linked  together  by  the  perception  of  this  likeness.  Their  modes 
of  acting  and  thinking  might,  at  first,  have  jarred,  but  these  modes 
are  not  in  their  own  nature,  immutable.  The  benefits  of  concur- 
rence, the  inconveniences  of  opposition,  and  the  opportunities  of 
comparing  and  weighing  the  grounds  of  their  differences  cannot 
be  supposed  to  be  without  some  tendency  to  produce  resemblance 
and  sympathy. 

"  This  is  plausible,  said  the  lady,  but  what  is  your  aim  in  sta- 
ting these  remarks  ?  Do  you  mean  by  them  to  extenuate  the  evils 
that  arise  from  restraining  divorces  ? 

"  If  they  contribute  to  that  end,  answered  I,  it  is  proper  to 
urge  them.  They  promote  a  good  purpose.  Your  picture  was 
so  terrible  that  I  am  willing  to  employ  any  expedient  for  soften- 
ing its  hues. 

"  If  it  were  just,  you  ought  to  have  admitted  its  justice.  We 
sec  the  causes  of  these  evils.  They  admit  of  an  obvious  remedy. 
A  change  in  the  opinions  of  a  nation  is  all  that  is  requisite  for 
this  end.  But  let  us  excunine  your  pleas,  or  rather,  instead  of 
reasoning  on  the  subject,  let  us  turn  our  ejes  on  the  world  and 
its  scenes,  and  mark  the  eflfect  of  this  spirit  by  which  human  be- 
ings arc  prompted  to  adopt  the  opinions,  and  dote  upon  the  pre- 
sence of  those  whom  accident  has  placed  beside  them.  It  would 
be  absurd  to  deny  all  influence  to  habit  and  all  force  to  reflections 
upon  the  incurableness  of  the  evil,  but  what  is  the"efl"ect  they 
produce  .'  In  numberless  cases  the  married  life  is  a  scene  of 
perpetual  contention  and  strife.  A  transient  observer  frequent- 
ly perceives  this,  but  in  cases  where  appearances  are  more  spe- 
cious, he  that  has  an  opportunity  to  penetrate  the  veil  which 
bangs  over  the  domestic  scene,  is  often  disgusted  with  a  specta- 
cle j^f  varied  an'd  exquisite  misery.  Nothing  is  to  be  found  but 
a  disgusting  train  of  mean  compliances,  despicable  artifices,  pe- 
vishness,  recriminations  and  falsehood.  It  is  rare  that  fortitude 
and  consideration  are  exercised  by  either  party.  Their  misery 
is  heightened  by  impatience  and  tprmenting  recollections,  but 
the  few  whose  minds  are  capable  of  fortitude,  who  estimate  the 


101 

evil  at  its  just  value,  and  profit  by  the  portion  of  good,  whatever 
it  be,  that  remains  to  thein,  experience  indeed,  sensations  less 
acute,  and  pass  fewer  moments  of  bitterness  ;  but  it  is  from  the 
imhappy  that  patience  is  demanded.  This  virtue  does  not  anni- 
hilate the  evil  that  oppresses  us,  but  lightens  it.  It  does  not  de- 
stroy in  us  the  consciousness  of  privileges  of  which  we  are  desti- 
tute, or  of  joys  which  have  taken  their  flight.  Its  office  is  to  pre- 
vent these  reflections  from  leading  us  to  rage  and  despair  ;  to 
make  us  look  upon  lost  happiness  without  relapsing  into  phrenzy; 
to  establish  in  our  bosoms  the  empire  of  cold  and  solemn  indif- 
ference. 

"  If  the  exercise  of  reason  and  the  enjoyment  of  liberty  be  va- 
luable ;  if  the  eff'usions  of  genuine  sympathy  and  the  adherence 
to  an  unbiassed  and  enlightened  choice,  be  the  true  element  of 
man,  what  shall  we  think  of  that  harmony  which  is  the  result  of 
narrow  views  and  that  sympathy  which  is  the  ofl'spring  of  con- 
straint ? 

"  I  know  that  love,  as  it  is  commonly  understood,  is  an  empty 
and  capricious  passion.  It  is  a  sensual  attachment  which,  when 
unaccompanied  with  higher  regards,  is  truly  contemptible.  Tt> 
thwart  it  is  often  to  destroy  it,  and  sometimes,  to  qualify  the  vic- 
tims of  its  delusions  for  Bedlam.  In  the  majority  of  cases  it  is 
nothing  but  a  miserable  project  of  affectation.  The  hmguishing 
and  sighing  lover  is  an  object  to  which  the  errors  of  mankind 
have  annexed  a  certain  degree  of  reverence.  Misery  is  our  title 
to  compassion,  and  to  men  of  limited  capacities  the  most  deli- 
cious potion  that  can  be  administered  is  pity.  For  the  sake  of 
this,  hundreds  are  annually  metamorphosed  into  lovers.  It  is 
graceful  to  languish  with  an  hopeless  passion  ;  to  court  the  mu- 
sic of  sighs  and  the  secrecy  of  groves.  But  it  is  to  be  hoped  that 
these  chimeras  will,  at  length,  take  their  leaVe  of  us. 

*'  In  proportion  as  men  become  wise,  their  pursuits  will  be 
judiciously  selected,  and  that  which  they  have  wisely  chosen  will 
continue  for  a  certain  period,  to  be  the  objects  of  their  choice. 
Conjugal  fidelity  and  constancy  will  characteri/.e  the  wise.  But 
constancy  is  meritorious  only  within  certain  limits.  What  re- 
verence is  due  to  groundless  and  obstinate  attachments  ?  It  be- 
comes me  to  make  the  best  choice  that  circumstances  will  ad- 
mit, but  human  affairs  will  never  be  reduced  to  that  state  in 


102      ■ 

which  the  decisions  of  the  wisest  man  will  be  immutable.  Al- 
lowance must  be  made  for  inevitable  changes  of  situation,  and 
for  the  nature  of  man,  which  is  essentially  progressive :  That  is 
evil  which  hinders  him  from  conforming  to  these  changes,  and 
restrains  him  from  the  exercise  of  his  judgment. 

*'  Let  it  be  admitted  that  love  is  easily  extinguished  by  re- 
flection. Does  it  follow  that  he  ought  to  be  controuled  in  the 
choice  of  his  companion  ?  Your  observations  imply,  that  he  that 
is  now  married  to  one  woman,  would  attach  himself  to 
another,  if  the  law  did  not  interpose.  Where  are  the  benefits 
of  interposition  ?  Does  it  increase  the  happiness  of  him  that  is 
affected  by  it  ?  Will  its  succour  be  invoked  by  his  present  con- 
sort? That  a  man  continues  to  associate  with  me  contrary  to  his 
judgment  and  inclination  is  no  subject  of  congratulation.  If  law 
or  force  obliged  him  to  endure  my  society,  it  does  not  compel 
him  to  feig-n  esteem,  or  dissemble  hatred  or  indifference.  If  the 
heart  of  my  husband  be  estranged  from  me,  I  may  possibly  re- 
gard it  as  an  evil.  If  in  consequence  of  this  estrangement, 
we  separate  our  persons  and  interests,  this  is  a  desirable  conse- 
quence. This  is  the  only  palliation  of  which  the  evil  is  sus- 
ceptible. 

"  It  cannot  be  denied  that  certain  inconveniences  result 
from  the  disunion  of  a  married  pair,  according  to  the  present 
system.  You  have  justly  observed  that  men  are  reduced,  in 
most  cases,  to  a  choice  of  evils.  Some  evils  are  unavoidable. 
Others  are  gratuitous  and  wantonly  incurred.  The  chief  evils 
flowing  from  the  dissolution  of  marriage,  are  incident  to  the 
female.  This  happens  in  consequence  of  the  iniquitous  and 
partial  treatment  to  which  women  in  general  are  subjected.  If 
marriage  were  freed  from  all  spurious  obligations,  the  inconve- 
niences, attending  the  dissolution  of  it,  would  be  reduced  to 
nothing. 

"  What  tliink  you,  said  I,  of  the  duty  we  owe  to  our  children. 
Is  not  their  happiness  materially  affected  by  this  species  of  liberty  ? 

"I  cannot  perceive  how.  I  would,  however,  be  rightly  un- 
derstood. I  confess  that,  according  to  the  present  system,  it 
would,  and  hence  arises  a  new  objection  to  this  system.  The 
children  suffer,  but  do  their  sufferings,  even  in  the  present  state 
of  things,  outweigh  the  evils  resulting  from  the  impossibility  of 


103 

separation  ?  The  evil  that  the  parents  endure,  and  tlie  evils  ac- 
cruing to  the  offspring  themselves  ? 

*'  If  children  stand  in  need  of  the  guidance  and  protection  of 
their  elders,  and  particularly  of  their  parents,  it  ought  to  be 
granted.  The  parental  relation  continues  notwithstanding  a  di- 
vorce. Though  they  have  ceased  to  be  husband  and  wife  to  each 
other,  they  have  not  ceased  to  be  father  and  mother  to  me. 
My  claims  on  them  are  the  same,  and  as  forcible  as  ever.  The 
ties  by  which  they  are  bound  to  me,  are  not  diminished  by  this 
event.  My  claim  for  subsistence  is  made  upon  their  property. 
But  this  accident  does  not  annihilate  their  property.  If  it  im- 
poverish one,  the  other  is  proportionably  enriched.  There  is  the 
same  inclination  and  power  to  answer  my  claim:  The  judgment 
that  consulted  for  my  happiness  and  decided  for  me,  before  their 
separation,  is  no  whit  altered  or  lessened.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
most  likely  to  be  improved.  When  relieved  from  the  task  of 
tormenting  each  other,  and  no  longer  exposed  to  bickerings  and 
disappointment,  they  become  better  qualified  for  any  disinterested 
or  arduous  office. 

"  But  what  effects,  said  I,  may  be  expected  from  the  removal 
of  this  restraint,  upon  the  morals  of  the  people  ?  It  seems  to  open 
a  door  to  licentiousness  and  profligacy.  If  marriages  can  be  dis- 
solved and  contracted  at  pleasure,  will  not  every  one  deliver 
himself  up  to  the  impulse  of  a  lawless  appetite  ?  Would  not  changes 
be  incessant?  All  chastity  of  mind  perhaps,  would  perish.  A  ge- 
neral corruption  of  manners  would  ensue,  and  this  vice  would 
pave  the  way  for  the  admission  of  a  thousand  others,  till  the 
whole  nation  were  sunk  into  a  state  of  the  lowest  degeneracy. 

"  Pray  thee,  cried  the  lady,  leave  this  topic  of  declamation  to 
the  school  boys — Liberty,  in  this  respect,  would  eminently  con- 
duce to  the  happiness  of  mankind.  A  partial  reformation  would 
be  insufficient.  Set  marriage  on  a  right  basis,  and  the  pest  that 
has  hitherto  made  itself  an  inmate  of  every  house,  and  ravaged 
every  man's  peace,  will  be  exterminated.  The  servitude  that  has 
debased  one  half  of  the  tyranny  that  has  depraved  the  other  half 
of  the  human  species  will  be  at  an  end. 

"  And  with  all  those  objections  to  the  present  regulations  on 
this  subject,  you  will  still  maintain  that  you  are  an  advocate  of 
marriage  i  i 


104 

"  Undoubtedly  I  retain  the  term,  and  am  justified  by  common 
usage  in  retaining  it.  No  one  imagines  that  the  lorais  which  law 
or  custom,  in  a  particular  age  or  nation,  may  happen  to  annex  to 
marriage  are  essential  to  it,  if  lawgivers  should  enlarge  the  pri- 
vilege of  divorce,  and  new  modify  the;  rights  of  property,  as  they 
are  affected  by  marriage.  Should  they  ordain  that  henceforth 
the  husband  should  vow  obedience  to  the  wife,  in  place  of  the 
former  vow  which  the  wife  made  to  the  husliand,  or  entirely 
prohibit  promises  of  any  kind  ;  should  they  expunge  from  the 
catalogue  of  conjugal  duties  that  which  confines  them  to  the  same 
dwelling,  who  would  imagine  that  the  institution  itself  were  sub- 
verted ?  In  the  east,  conjugal  servitude  has  ever  been  more  abso- 
lute than  with  us,  and  polygam}'  legally  established.  Yet,  who 
will  affirm  that  marriage  is  unknown  in  the  east.  Every  one 
knows  that  regulations  respecting  property,  domestic  govern- 
ment, and  the  causes  of  divorce  are  incident  to  this  state,  and  do 
not  constitute  its  essence. 

"  I  shall  assent,  said  I,  to  the  truth  of  this  statement.  Per- 
haps i  may  be  disposed  to  adventure  a  few  steps  further  than  you. 
It  appears  to  me  that  marriage  has  no  ether  criterion  than  custoin. 
This  term  is  descriptive  of  that  mode  of  sexual  intercourse, 
whatever  it  mav  be,  which  custom  or  law  has  established  in 
any  coimtry.  All  the  modifications  of  this  intercourse  that  have 
ever  existed,  or  can  be  supposed  to  exist,  are  so  many  species 
included  in  the  general  term.  The  question  that  we  have  been 
discussing  is  no  other  than  this  :  what  species  of  marriage  is  most 
agreeable  to  justice — Or,  in  other  words,  what  are  the  princi- 
ples that  ought  to  regulate  the  sexual  intercourse  ?  It  is  not  likely 
that  any  portion  of  mankind  have  reduced  these  principles  to 
practice.  Hence  arises  a  second  question  of  the  highest  mo- 
ment: what  conduct  is  incumbent  upon  me,  when  the  species  of 
marriage  established  among  my  countrymen,  does  not  conform 
to  my  notions  of  duty. 

"  That  indeed,  returned  she,  is  going  further  then  I  am  wil- 
ling to  accompany  you.  There  are  many  conceivable  modes  of 
sexual  intercourse  on  which  I  cannot  bestow  the  appellation  of 
mhrriage.  There  is  something  which  inseparably  belongs  to  it. 
It  is  not  imallowable  to  call  by  this  name  a  state  which  compre- 
hends, together  with  these  ingredients,  any  number  of  append- 


105 

• 
ages.     But  to  call  a  state  which  wants  these  Ingredients  mar- 
riage, appears  to  me  a  perversion  of  language. 

*'  I  pry'thee,  said  I,  what  are  these  ingredients  ?  You  have 
largely  expatiated  on  the  non-essentials  of  matrimony  :  Be  good 
enough  to  say  what  truly  belongs  to  this  state  ? 

"  Willingly,  answered  she.  Marriage  is  an  unioti  founded 
on  free  and  mutual  consent.  It  cannot  exist  without  friend- 
ship. It  cannot  exist  without  personal  fidelity.  As  soon  as 
the  union  ceases  to  be  spontaneoas  it  ceases  to  be  just.  This 
is  the  sum.  If  I  were  to  talk  for  months,  I  could  add  nothing 
to  the  completeness  of  this  definitionr" 

The  gentleman  before  mentioned  remarks  thus  on  the  above 
dialogue  :  It  was  deemed  proper  to  give  a  full  and  front  view 
of  such  speculations,  to  show  the  arguments  which  ingenious 
sophistrj'  might  urge  against  any  existing  establishment,  and  at 
the  same  time,  how  little  mankind  will  be  benefitted  by  the 
substitute  recommended  as  a  cure  for  such  evils.  That  imper- 
fection is  written  on  the  features  of  humanity  is  certainly  a  dis- 
covery which  has  no  claim  to  novelty.  If  we  consider  the  ope- 
ration of  a  law  merely  to  discover  what  instances  of  partial  in- 
justice may  arise,  and  overlook  all  the  benefits  resulting  from 
its  adoption,  nothing  is  easier  than  to  point  out  such  defects. 
With  the  aid  of  eloquence  nothing  is  easier  than  to  represent 
such  defects  of  gigantic  magnitude,  and  sufficiently  forcible 
the)'  may  be  thought  to  warrant  the  repeal  of  such  a  law.  But 
when  such  ingenuity  is  pressed  upon  this  point  to  provide  a 
substitute  for  what  it  demolishes,  it  commonly  terminates  in  an 
evil  tenfold  more  alarming  than  what  has  been  so  violently  de- 
claimed against.  The  misery  of  such  speculations  is,  that  their 
projectors  do  not  see  the  end  of  their  own  arguments.  The 
sanctity  of  the  matrimonial  tie,  may  give  rise  to  instances  of 
partial  injustice  and  oppression  for  which  the  law  has  provided 
a  remedy.  If  these  instances  are  urged  as  valid  objections 
against  matrimony,  they  may  be  made  to  appear  formidable  and 
convincing ;  but  the  alternative  proposed  is,  indiscriminate  in- 
tercourse. It  is  made  dependent  on  the  will  of  the  parties, 
their  caprices,  their  jealousies  and  their  antipathies,  pea'^onable 

14  * 


106 
• 

or  unreasonable,  which  they  themselves  would  be  the  first  to 

condemn  afterwards,  when  they  shall  unite  and  when  they  shall 

sep.'rafe. 

Had  the  proposition  thus  advanced  by  this  writer  been  stated 
to  him  as  a  substitute  for  the  ceremonial  solemnities  now  in  use, 
he  would  have  been  the  first  to  have  anathematized  the  introduc- 
tion of  such  dangerous  novelties.  He  would  have  rejected  the 
amendment  to  the  matrimonial  code  at  once,  for  none  entertained 
higher  ideas  of  the  sanctity  of  such  obligations,  than  this  very 
author.  But  following  his  own  speculations,  intent  only  on  find- 
ing fault  with  existing  establishments,  in  order  to  make  himself 
consistent  in  the  sequel,  he  is  compelled  to  plunge  headlong 
into  the  very  difficulty  he  Avould  have  wished  most  sedulously  to 
avoid.  Such  is  the  fate  of  those  who  let  speculation  loose  with- 
out discretion.  They  are  compelled  to  justify  what  in  heart 
they  tibhor,  and  to  defend  enormities  that  shock  their  moral 
sense,  before  they  are  conscious  of  their  being  pressed  into  such 
service.  It  is  now  too  late  to  retreat,  and  the  error  must  be 
fairly  brazened  out,  or  what  is  still  worse,  it  must  be  - 
admitted  by  the  speculatists  themselves,  that  they  harboured 
wrong  ideas  on  the  subject.  It  is  curious  to  observe  how  the 
zeal  of  Charles  in  this  inquiry  relaxes,  as  soon  as  he  states  the 
substitute.  He  feels  the  press  of  the  difficulty,  and  not  knowing 
how  to  abandon  the  subject  in  the  first  place,  or  to  maintain  it  in 
the  next,  abruptly  concludes  his  argument  altogether. 

This  silence,  this  guardedness,  this  expressive  caution,  intro- 
duced at  the  very  moment  that  the  author  is  about  substituting 
a  remedy  for  all  the  evils,  which  he  declaims  so  eloquently 
against,  is  perhaps  the  best  comment  on  the  impracticability  of  his 
amendment.  The  author  seems  to  abandon  his  own  project  in 
disgust,  and  while  he  is,  when  writing,  forcibly  impressed  with 
the  miseries  attending  our  present  mode  of  solemnizing  the 
matrimonial  rite,  he  seems  equally  convinced  that  it  is  better  to 
tolerate  than  to  adopt  the  alternative,  which  he  himself  proposes. 
On  this  subject,  where  it  might  be  supposed  he  should  lay  out 
his  whole  strength,  he  shrinks  from  the  investigation,  and  dreads 
the  consequences  that  result.  The  substitute  which  he  did  thus 
propose,  in  all  probability  convinced  the  author  himself  of  the 
sophistry  of  his  own  arguments. 


107 

Of  this  treatise  Mr.  Brown  remarks  in  his  journal,  "  I  have 
completed  a  third  and  fourth  parts  of  the  dialogue  of  Alcuin, 
in  which  the  topic  of  marriage  is  discussed  with  some  degree 
of  subtlety  at  least." 

He  then  goes  on  to  speak  of  a  romance  which  he  began  at 
this  time,  but  never  finished. 

"  When  this  was  finished,  I  commenced  something  in  the 
form  of  a  Romance.  I  had  at  first  no  definitive  conceptions  of 
my  design.  As  my  pen  proceeded  forward,  my  invention  was 
tasked,  and  the  materials  that  it  afforded  were  arranged  and 
digested.  Fortunately  I  continued  to  view  this  scheme  in  the 
same  light  in  which  it  had  at  first  presented  itself.  Time  there- 
fore did  not  diminish  its  attractions.  The  facility  I  experienc- 
ed in  composition,  and  the  perception  of  daily  progress  en- 
couraged me,  and  my  task  was  finished  on  the  last  day  of  De- 
cember. 

,  *'  I  hardly  know  how  to  regard  this  exploit.  Is  it  a  resptec- 
table  proof  of  perseverance  or  not  ?  Considering  my  character 
in  its  former  appearances,  this  steadiness  of  application  might 
not  have  been  expected.  What  is  the  nature  or  merit  of  my 
performance  ?  This  question  is  not  for  me  to  answer.  My  de- 
cision is  favourable  or  otherwise,  according  to  the  views  which 
I  take  of  the  subject.  When  a  mental  comparison  is  made 
between  this  and  the  mass  of  novels,  1  am  inclined  to  be  pleas- 
ed with  my  own  production.  But  when  the  objects  of  compa- 
rison are  changed,  and  I  revolve  the  transcendant  merits  of 
Caleb  Williams,  my  pleasure  is  diminished,  and  is  preserved 
from  a  total  extinction  only  by  the  reflection  that  thisjerform- 
ance  is  the  first.  That  every  new  attempt  will  be  better  than 
the  last,  and  that  considered  in  the  light  of  a  prelude  or  first 
link,  it  may  merit  that  praise  to  which  it  may  possess  no  claim, 
considered  as  a  last  best  creation. 

*'  It  was  at  first  written  in  an  hasty  and  inaccurate  way.  Be- 
fore I  can  submit  it  to  a  printer,  or  even  satifactorily  rehearse  it 
to  a  friend,  it  must  be  wholly  transcribed.  I  am  at  present  en- 
gaged in  this  employment.  I  am  afraid,  as  much  time  will  be 
required  by  it,  as  was  necessary  to  the  original  composition.  I 


108 

do  not  fear  but  that  I  shall  finish  my  labour,  barring  all  extra- 
ordinary accidents." 

This  work,  of  which  the  author  speaks  so  slightingly,  now 
remains  in  an  unfinished  state,  and  has  never  seen  the  press. 
The  reader  may  be  gratified  by  extracts.  It  is  done  in  the 
mode  of  familar  correspondence  between  two  feigned  characters. 

*'  Cannot  you  come  to  me  Jessy  ?  I  want  you  much.  I  long 
for  you.  Nay,  I  cannot  do  without  you ;  so,  at  all  events,  you 
must  come.  That  is  no  objection,  my  dear,  for  methinks  I  hear 
you  plead,  good  glrl,;as  you  are,  your  mother's  infirmities.  I  tell 
you  that  is  no  objection;  she  can  spare  you  for  a  week  or  two 
surely :  at  least,  a  day  or  two.  She  will  not  miss  you  for  so  short 
a  time.  Besides,  Jessy,  do  not  be  partial.  Recollect  you  have 
a  friend  as  well  as  a  mother,  and  some  attention  is  due  to  the  first 
as  well  as  the  last ;  and  I  want  you  more  than  your  mother  can 
want  you.  You  will  be  of  more  service  to  me  than  to  her ;  quite 
as  much,  at  any  rate.  1  have  a  better,  or  an  equal  claim  to  have 
you  with  me  altogether ;  but  you  see  I  urge  not  my  claim,  and  I 
hope  you  will  give  me  some  credit  for  moderation.  I  do  not  ask 
you  to  come  and  sta}'  with  me  constantly,  but  a  week  or  two,  at 
this  delightful  season,  I  must  have. 

"  And  this  I  ask  for  your  sake,  as  well  as  my  own  :  Nay,  for 
your  mother's  sake  I  ask  it ;  for  has  she  no  interest  in  your  gra- 
tification ?  Has  she  not  a  direct,  and  even  a  selfish  interest  in 
your  health  ;  and  does  not  your  health  as  well  as  your  pleasure 
CiJl  for  some  respite  from  household  and  chamber  duties?  These 
sweet  airs,  and  this  lively  green,  a  twilight  walk  with  me  under 
these  tall  elms ;  a  cessation  of  all  your  cares  and  trials  for  a  week 
or  fortnight,  or  month — your  health  would  be  Improved;  your 
spirits  recruited,  and  you  would  return  to  her  bed-side  ten  time9 
more  able  than  you  now  are  to  nurse  and  amuse  her. 

"  It  must  be  so,  Jessy ;  and  now,  that  point  being  settled,  when 
will  you  come  ?  Name  the  hour,  and  Tom  shall  call  for  you. 

"  Would  it  were  so,  sweet  Jessy,  but  for  all  I  am  so  peremp- 
tory and  positive,  I  fear  that  I  shall  not  prevail  on  you  to  give  me 
a  single  hour  of  your  company  here.  Have  I  not,  before  now, 
besought  you  to  come  ;  have  I  not  called  on  you,  on  purpose, 
and,  with  the  carriage  at  the  door,  with  footman  by,  and  steps 


109 

down,  ready  to  receive  you,  argued  and  intreated  in  vain  ?  In 
truth,  Jessy,  thou  art  an  obstinate  girl.  More  than  once  has 
your  strange  attachment  to  home  made  me  half  angry  with  you; 
and  more  than  half  displeased,  if  you  now  refuse,  shall  I  be.  I 
shall  quarrel  with  you  outright — I  believe. 

"  To  no  purpose,  I  fear,  shall  I  reason  with  you  ;  yet,  upon 
my  life,  Jessy,  I  think  I  have  the  better  cause.  Your  friend 
stands  quite  as  much  in  need  of  your  fostering  kindness  and  your 
wisdom  as  your  mother.  Nay,  I  firmly  believe,  that  if  there 
were  scales  to  weigh  your  usefulness  respectively  to  her  and  to 
me,  my  scale  would  prove  the  heavier.  Can  I  not  convince  you 
of  it  ?  Conviction  is  all  you  want,  and  if  I  could  but  convince 
you  I  should  have  you  here  in  a  trice.  Shall  I  try  ?  I  xvilly  but 
no.    I  w'lWnot.     Have  I  not  already  tried  ;  ineffectually  tried  ? 

*'  You  do  not  love  me,  Jessy.  That  is  the  secret  cause  of  your 
reluctance.  You  are  not  just  to  me  :  you  are  not — gratefuL 
Forgive  me,  sweet  girl.  1  have  not  forgotten  how  this  imputa- 
tion once  affected  you.  What  excuse  then  can  I  make  for  repeat- 
ing it  now  ?  Why  do  I  ask  your  pardon  ?  Yet  I  know  that  plac- 
able spirit  will  grant  my  petition  for  guilt  a  thousand  times  worse. 

"  If  you  will  come,  all  shall  be  well.  I  will  get  the  summer- 
house  in  order,  on  purpose.  You  shall  dine,  sup  and  sleep  with 
me  alone.  I  will  have  you  all  to  myself.  So  come,  begs,  prays, 
intreats  your 

SOPHIA. 

"  I  am  almost  afraid  to  write  you,  in  my  present  humour.  I 
would  not,  methinks,  have  you  know  how  passionate  I  can  be  : 
yet  let  sincerity,  at  least,  be  my  virtue.  Let  me  not  pass  on  vou 
for  better  than  I  am. 

*'  You  have  taught  me,  indeed,  not  to  be  afraid  of  vou.  So 
prompt  as  you  always  are  to  forgive,  to  palliate,  or  overlook  mv 
faults.  My  own  heart  reproaches  me,  but  your  lips  distil  no- 
thing but  sweetness.  No  fount  of  bitterness  is  that  heart.  And 
hence  I  suppose  my  unreserve  to  you.  I  cannot  bear  reproach- 
es from  another.  The  less  can  I  bear  them  if  I  deserve  them. 
Contempt,  surely,  I  deserve,  but,  nevertheless,  I  would  not  be 
contemned.  I  cannot  bear  contempt,  Jessy  :  and  so  my  actions 
I  hide  ;  my  feelings  I  disguise,  to  all  the  world — but  you  j  for 


110 

you  echo  not  back  my  self-censure.  INIy  frankest  avowals  call 
not  forth  your  scorn  :  nothing  but  soothing  praise  do  you  ever 
whisper  in  my  ear. 

"  Yet  how  is  it  ?  You  do  not  seem  to  see  my  conduct  as  I  see 
it:  you  reason  and  feel  in  a  different  manner  in  relation  to  my 
own  errors.  Yet  this  difference  brings  not  your  sagacity  into 
question  with  me.  It  creates  no  doubt  as  to  your  discernment. 
Nay,  so  far  from  weakening,  it  carries  higher  my  Reverence.  I 
would  fain  know  how  all  this  happens,  Jessy. 

**  Your  own  conduct  too  !  so  unlike  my  follies  and  caprices  ? 
conveys  so  strong,  though  indirect,  a  censure  of  mine !  opensjuy 
,   eyes  still  wider  on  my  own  defects !  makes  me  still  more  despise 
myself!  more  uneasy  in  my  own  reflections. 

*<  At  times  I  am  angry  with  you  !  I  deal  in  ungenerous  re- 
proaches !  but  your  gentle  heart  is  never  responsive  to  such  dis- 
cords. My  fits  of  impatience,  so  absurd,  so  inexcusable  in  my 
own  eyes,  trouble  30U  not.  How  they  lower  me  in  my  own 
estimation  !  Yet,  strange  to  tell,  by  some  inconceivable  adroit- 
.ness,  you  extract  from  them  new  motives  for  tenderness  and  gra- 
titude, and  yet  lower  not  yourself;  only  raise  yourself  higher 
in  the  scale  of  excellence,  and  in  my  veneration. 

"  Truly,  truly,  thou  art  an  admirable  creature,  Jessy,  and  I 
love  thee,  that  I  do.  A  friend  !  Till  this  age,  and  till  I  knew 
thee,  I  never  had  a  friend,  and  never  shall  have  another,  of  ei- 
ther sex ;  for  surely  the  world  contains  not  such  another  crea- 
ture as  thou  :  at  least,  in  the  form  of  ma7i.  Single  then,  Jessy, 
shall  I  ever  be ;  for  he  whom  I  marry  must  be  mof e  than  lover : 
he  must  be  my  friend. 

"  Less  perfect  thou,  less  placable ;  less  unreproachable  ;  I 
should  not  bear  thee  near  me.  I  should  disdainfully  and  angrily 
cast  thee  away.  But  now  that  thy  words  soothe,  while  thy  con- 
duct only  upbraids  me  :  that  humiliation,  though  increased  by 
reviewing  thy  deportment,  is  properly  my  own  act.  I  can  love 
thee  with  a  pure,  may  I  not  say  with  a  generous  aflection. 

*'  But  now,  what  has  become  of  the  peevish  and  reproachful 
humour  in  which  I  began  this  letter  ?  Have  I  talked  it,  have  I 
reasoned  it  away  ?  It  is  certainly — much  abated.  Not  quite 
disappeared  however.  I  am  yet  a  little  displeased  with  you. 
Shall  I  give  way  to,  or  struggle  against  the  impulse — to  scold 


Ill 

you  for— unfriendliness — for  ingratitude  ? 

*'  After  such  representations,  I  really  think,  Jessy,  you  might 
have  come,  for  a  day  or  two  at  least,  if  merely  to  evince  a  dis- 
position to  oblige  me.  The  same  disposition  on  my  part,  has 
not  been  wanting.  All  I  wanted  was  ability.  And  that  from 
your  perverseness,  not  the  slightest  boon  from  me  will  you 
alloAV  to  contaminate  your  hand. 

"  This  refusal  is  obstinate,  is  proud  in  you,  Jessy — but  my 
passion  is  again  at  work.  "  I  must  lay  down  my  pen.  I  shall 
only  expose  myself  to  your  compassion.  , 

*'  How  little  am  I  fit  for  a  world  like  this.  So  full  of  dis- 
appointment and  vicissitude.  Two  or  three  hours,  when  all 
nature  was  smiling  upon  me,  have  I  been  the  prey  of  vexation. 
Resentful,  sullen  and  unhappy! 

"  I  saw  the  carriage  coming  up  the  avenue  empty.  I  allowed 
my  desires,  and  not  my  reason  to  dictate  my  expectations.  So 
I  set  my  whole  heart  upon  your  coming  back  v/ith  Tom. 

<*  Tom  brought  me  the  letter.  I  snatched  it  from  him,  and  re- 
solved to  disburthen  my  heart  somewhere — What  kept  you  so 
long,  saunterer?  Creeping,  creeping;  were  you  trying  legs  with 
a  snail! 

"  Why  Madam !  a  snail,  Madam,  said  the  simpleton,  confused 
and  at  a  loss  what  to  say. 

"  My  conscience  rebuked  me.  Well,  well  (in  a  softer  accent) 
go  thy  ways,  and  make  more  haste  in  future. 

"  I  read  thy  letter  cursorily.  It  hushed  not  my  tumultuous 
feelings.  I  went  to  the  harpsichord — Let  me  try,  said  I,  what 
music  will  do.  But  attention  was  refractory  and  vagrant,  and 
I  dashed  both  hands  upon  an  half  score  keys  at  once — '<  Stub- 
bom  things  !  never  in  tune  for  three  minutgs  together." 

"  I  went  to  my  closet.  Thomson's  Seasons  was  the  volume. 
Let  me  try  the  poet  by  the  only  sure  test.  "  Let  nae  look  at  na- 
ture and  at  him  by  turns."  But  it  would  not  answer.  No 
salutary  occupation  had  charms  for  me,  who  had  planned  out 
walks  of  conversations  with  you,  for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

"  I'll  walk  by  myself,  and  read  her  letter  again  "on  the  bench 
under  the  bank." 


112 

**  It  was  an  hard  struggle,  and  demanded  several  readings  of 

thy  letter,  to  lull  myself  into  any  degree  of  complacency.     Thus 

Jessy,  do  I  lay  open  before  thee,  the  frail,  very  frail  heart  of 

thy  friend.     Think  well  of  it,  think  better  of  it  than  I  do,  or 

'  I  shall  not  know  how  to  bear  my  own  reflections. 

*'  How  is  it,  with  such  difference  between  us,  that  we  are 
friends  ?  In  what  respect  am  I  like  you  ?  In  every  point  we  are 
contrary.  In  fortune,  in  external  condition,  how  opposite ! 
You,  just  above  naked,  hungering,  unsheltered  poverty  :  but 
not  above  the  necessity  of  toiling  with  your  hands  for  bread. 
Not  exempt  from  menial,  servile  offices.  I  rolling  in  aflluence, 
not  raising  an  hand  for  any  other  end  than  my  amusement, 
leaving  to  others  the  most  trifling  personal  offices. 

"  You,  passing  your  life,  under  a  low  roof,  in  a  dirty  and 
obscure  suburb,  supplying  the  ceaseless  wants  of  an  old,  infirm 
and  blind  mother,  who  requires  hourly  attendance,  and  will  not 
allow  you  to  consult  your  recreation  or  health,  by  a  day's  ab- 
sence from  her  chamber,  once  a  year.  I  moving  about,  in  a 
circuit  of  a  thousand  miles,  at  my  own  pleasure,  as  the  whim  of 
the  moment  instigates,  always  in  the  enjoyment  of  lightsome 
halls,  and  lofty  ceilings,  and  wide  prospects. 

"You,  lonely,  unobserved,  unvisited,  untalked  about,  an  object 
to  the  hurry  of  forgetfulness,  to  the  frown  of  scorn.  I  with  the 
casual  advantages  of  fortune,  and  birth,  wooed,  flattered  and 
caressed  by  hundreds,  placed  uppermost  at  banquets,  balls  and 
visits. 

"  Thus  far  the  undiscerning  and  vulgar  will  suppose  that  I 
have  the  advantage,  but  let  the  effects  of  our  different  situations 
in  our  respective  characters  be  marked,  and  the  advantage  will 
no  longer  be  given  to  me. 

"  With  all  the  means  of  happiness,  I  have  it  not,  but  whose 
thoughts  are  more  cheerful,  whose  days  are  more  serene  than 
those  of  Jessica.  She  is  a  meek,  quiet  and  humble  creature, 
while  I  am  arrogant,  restless,  captious,  always  looking  foward 
with  despondency,  backward  with  regret.  Jessy,  in  her  hum- 
ble riphere,  is  constantly  promoting  the  comforts  and  enjoyments 
of  two  beings,  and  derives  happiness  herself  from  the  success 
of  her  efforts,  while  I,  with  all  appliances  and  mcana  ta  i§»i. 


115 

live  neither  to  my  own  content,  nor  to  the  ordinary  satisfaction 
of  another. 

"  Shall  I  carry  farther  the  comparison  ?  In  form,  in  features, 
in  stature,  we  have  nothing  in  common,  our  education  has  been 
different.  All  these  showy  arts  and  graces  which  a  master  can 
teach  are  mine.  You  have  none  of  them.  INIy  father  has  en- 
deavoured to  make  me  a  writer  and  reader.  For  this  end  he 
has  furnished  me  with  rules  and  set  before  me  models,  and  I 
believe  they  have  profitted  me  something,  but  how  little,  with 
my  languid  resolution,  and  fickle  temper,  have  they  contributed 
to  my  happiness. 

"  Jessy,  on  the  contrary,  is  mistress  of  no  elegance,  music, 
elocution,  painting,  embroidery  are  none  of  hers.  She  knows 
nothing  but  the  basting  and  hemming  needle,  and  leaves  to 
others  the  imitation  of  flowers  and  faces,  while  she  accommo- 
dates her  own  and  her  neighbour's  wants,  with  worsted  stockings 
and  russet  petticoats. 

"  Having  passed  her  youth  among  people  nowise  bookish,  she 
lias  little  or  nothing  of  that  sort  of  knowledge  that  books  give 
us.     Reading  is  a  task  to  her  full  of  tediousness  and  difficulty. 

"  While  Sophia  is  prating  in  a  gay  circle,  charming  an 
audience  by  a  lesson  of  Scarlette,  reading  some  descriptive  part, 
lolling  on  a  sopha,  or  musing  in  an  orange  grove,  Jessy  is  plying 
the  laborious  needle  in  her  sorry  chamber ;  kindling  sticks  be- 
neath a  tea  kettle,  sweeping  cobwebs  from  a  cellar  ceiling,  or 
dressing  her  helpless  mother.  What  a  difference !  Yet,  that 
the  interval  between  us  should  thus,  in  some  sense,  have  dis- 
appeared ;  that  I  should  have  found  thee  out  in  thy  unpromising 
obscurit)',  and  have  fallen  in  love  with  thy  unostentatious  merit, 
and  that  Jessy  should  lay  those  scruples  aside,  that  interfere  so 
much  to  keep  at  distance,  persons  in  our  situation,  and  given  me 
her  love  in  return,  are  all  veiy  strange  things. 

"  Ah !  Jessy,  since  the  little  ciosses  to  mv  humour  that  I 
meet  with  have  such  effects  upon  iny  temper,  how  should  I  have 
behaved,  if  fortune  had  placed  me  in  thy  situation  ?  I  sometimes 
feign  to  myself  the  consequences  of  such  a  change,  of  descending 
from  this  ease,  this  luxury,  this  homage,  this  idleness,  to  such 
a  fixed,  absurd,  monotonous  and  servile  condition  as  thine  is. 
In  not  one  particular  can  I  conceive  that  my  conduct,  in  such 

15 


114 

SL  change,  would  resemble  thine.  Quicklj'  would  my  keen 
regret,  my  mortified  disdain,  my  humiliating  drudgery  kill  me, 
and  the  contrast  between  thee  and  me,  at  present  so  complete, 
would  be  no  less  so  in  the  change  that  I  have  supposed. 

"  I  expected,  when  I  sat  down  to  write,  to  work  myself  gra- 
dually into  better  humour,  and  it  has  happened  so.  I  forgive 
thee,  Jessy,  for  the  pain  thy  refusal  of  my  invitation  has  given 
me  ;  but  only  on  one  condition  ;  that  you  make  me  some  amends 
by  writing  often.  There  is  no  duty,  I  presume,  to  prevent  that. 
That  you  will  not  come,  proves  indeed,  that  you  love  mother 
better  than  me,  but  that  you  do  not  write,  and  write  frequently, 
will  prove  that  you  have  not  the  least  affection  for  your 

SOPHIA. 


"  'Tis  true,  my  friend,  Courtland  offered  me  his  vows,  but 
at  a  time  when  my  heart  was  still  rent  with  anguish,  when  my 
tears  still  flowed  for  the  death  of  my  sister. 

"  At  another  time  and  now  perhaps,  it  is  possible ;  for  he  is 
an  excellent  man.  I  could  almost  love  him  for  his  treatment  of 
his  mother,  and  is  he  not  my  brother's  friend?  Besides,  his 
conduct  has  been  uniformly  generous.  He  knew  well  what  a 
strenuous,  what  an  irresistible  advocate  he  might  have  had  in 
my  brother,  but  he  forbore,  at  my  petition  indeed,  to  intimate 
his  wishes ;  and  this  forbearance,  in  some  sense,  served  his 
cause  with  me. 

I  think,  Sophia,  that  I  want  not  generosit}-,  I  v/ant  not  power 
to  discern  and  to  value  true  merit ;  Courtland  is  one  whom  I 
always  revered,  and  whom  now,  that  I  am  somewhat  relieved 
from  afflicting  recollections,  1  might,  perhaps,  if  his  former 
views  should  return. 

"  From  you,  Sophia,  I  will  hide  no  emotion  of  my  heart,  I 
rely  upon  your  honour  and  your  delicac}-.  It  is  impossible  that 
you  should  make  an  unwarrantable  use  of  this  confession.  And 
yet,  I  should  never  have  made  it,  even  to  you,  if  I  did  not  know 
that  Courtland's  views  with  regard  to  me  can  never  revive.  His 
affections  have  since  been  disjwscd  of  to  one  here  far  more  wor- 
thy than  the  humble  Jessy. 


115 

"  Nay,  methlnks,  I  could  almost  wish  him  to  know  my  pre- 
sent thoughts.  Surely  they  are  innocent  thoughts.  Not  to  have 
them,  how  obdurate,  how  blameably  insensible  would  that  prove 
me  to  be  ?  And  if  I  have,  and  ought  to  have  them,  why  not  own 
them  frankly  ?  To  my  brother,  to  him,  to  every  bodv. 

"  Heaven  is  my  witness,  that  my  unacceptance  of  his  offers 
flowed  not  from  pride,  from  stupidity,  but  only  from  regard  to 
him  and  you.  I  am  wrong,  in  the  assertion,  I  believe.  It  xvas 
from  pride,  the  pride  I  took  in  vieing  with  him  in  generosity. 
For  who  was  I,  to  be  beloved  by  so  noble  and  enlightened  a 
spirit  as  Courtland,  poor  portionless  girl  as  I  was,  ignorant, 
illiterate,  without  any  of  the  gay  embellishments  and  witching 
graces  that  conscious  merit  and  an  opulent  condition  bestowed, 
and  which  Courtland  used  to  meet  with  in  his  places  of  gay 
resort,  his  brilliant  circles  ? 

"  Was  I  to  look  down  upon  this  man,  so  much  older  and  con- 
sequently so  much  wiser  than  I  ?  Such  graceful  humanity,  so 
sweet  an  aspect  as  he  had !  No,  I  was  not  worthy  of  him.  I 
told  him  so,  and  wept  when  I  told  him  so.  My  grief  was  no 
common  grief,  but  sprung  only  from  belief  of  my  unworthiness. 

"  But  do  not  mistake  me  Sophia,  I  did  not  love  Courdand 
then,  nor  do  I  love  him  now.  It  was  because  I  did  not  love 
him  that  I  grieved.  Love  would  have  made  up  all  deficiencies, 
but  if  I  married,  I  should  have  carried  to  his  arms  every  thing 
indeed,  gratitude,  reverence,  but  not  love ;  and  what  but 
love  could  have  made  me  worthy  of  Courtland?  What  else 
could  drive  from  my  remembrance  the  image  of  my  sister  ?  At 
least,  what  else  could  hinder  this  from  engrossing  too  much  of 
my  thoughts.  What  else  could  give  me  the  ability  together  with 
the  zeal  for  knowledge,  which  in  time,  might  bring  me  nearer  to 
the  level,  and  more  entitle  me  to  the  respect  of  such  a  man  ? 

"  Mcthinks,  Sophia,  this  passion  would  work  surprising 
changes  in  such  creatures  as  thou  and  I.  Yet  let  me  apply  the 
remark  only  to  myself.  As  to  my  Sophia,  she  is  already  every 
thing  that  love  could  make  her.  Where  my  sweet  friend,  gettest 
thou  thy  looks,  and  thy  tones?  It  is  inconceivable  how  any  one 
can  be  in  your  company,  and  not  love.  But  men  in  general  I 
suspect,  area  gi-ovelling,  sordid  and  perverse  mod;  else  they 
could  not,  so  many  of  them  have  seen,  have  seen  my  Julia  with 


116 

indifference ;  for  you  tell  me  that  no  one  ever  loved  you,  but 
that  by  the  way,  I  do  not  quite  believe. 

"  But  ah !  I  have  found  out  the  cause.  You  do  not  talk  and 
look  to  every  one  as  you  do  to  me,  especially  to  men.  You 
turn  aside  those  blue  eyes,  or  glance  at  them  austerely,  as  who 
should  say,  "  thou  art  mj^  enemy."  Yes,  yes,  that  must  be  the 
cause,  to  be  sure.     What  a  simpleton  was  I  to  miss  it  so  long. 

"  And  yet,  Sophia,  I  dare  say  if  the  truth  were  known,  every 
heart  has  not  been  callous.  For  all  your  guarded  looks  and  cir- 
cumspect attitudes,  many  a  one,  I  doubt  not,  sighs  in  secret  for 
my  friend.  And  she  knows  it  too,  I  warrant,  but  she  is  so 
scrupulous  a  judge.  With  her  all  is  not  love  that  sighs,  nor  will 
she  own  it  to  exist  in  any  heart,  which  she  deigns  not  to  admit 
to  fellowship  with  her  own.  And  truly  thou  art  right  my  friend, 
lie  cannot  love  you  as  he  ought,  who  is  not  your  peer  in  merit, 
and  wiiere  are  we  to  hunt  for  one  gifted  so  divinely  as  my  Julia  i 

"  Will  you  pardon  me  ?  I  was  going  to  mention  o?ie.  Ru- 
mour was  very  busy  with  your  names,  and  the  tale  wanted  not 
plausibility.  I  scrupled  not  to  believe  all  that  was  said,  nor  to 
wish  much  more.  Your  delicacy  has,  I  suppose,  made  you 
silent  to  me,  and  I  ought  not  to  be  talkative  ;  yet  the  spell  is  on 
me  and  I  7nnst  talk.  For  what  do  I  take  up  my  pen,  but  to  tell 
you  all  my  thoughts  ?  and  have  not  I,  but  now,  set  you  the  ex- 
ample of  this  very  sort  of  ingenuousness  ? 

"  They  say,  Sophia,  that  Courdand  was  in  love  with  you. 
yet  not  till  after  his  failure  with  me,  and  how  surprising  is  that, 
since  he  grew  up  under  the  same  roof  with  you,  and  must  have 
seen  you  without  disguise  and  so  intimately.  But  why  say  I 
that  his  love  for  me  went  before  ? 

"  His  conduct  spoke  differently.  He  was  no  doubt  so  long 
withheld  by  disinterested  regards,  but  they  at  last  yielded,  as 
they  ought  to  do,  to  consciousness  of  merit.  So  he  wrote  to 
your  fiither,  it  seems,  stating  his  hopes,  yet  like  me  who  scarcely 
hoped,  and  was  prepared  to  return  fidelity  and  gratitude,  even 
if  refused.     It  was  an  admirable  letter. 

"  Indeed !  why,  you  have  not  seen  it,  have  you  ? 

"  I  have,  or  something  that  pretended  to  be  it.  Courtland 
shoAved  a  copy  to  my  brother  before  it  was  sent,  and  your  father 
showed  what  he  received  to  some  friends,  and  so  rumour  got 


117 

speedy  hold  of  it.  I  need  not  say  more,  for  without  doubt  you 
know  the  whole  affair,  and  now  that  you  see  I  know  something 
of  it,  will  you  oblige  me  by  telling  me  all  ?  And  here  I  will  break 
off,  to  give  you  opportunity.     Adieu. 


"  Were  it  not  for  this  pathetic  earnestness  I  should  think  you 
in  jest.     Can  it  be  that  the  story  is  absolutely  new  to  you  ? 

"  I  fear  then  I  was  wrong  in  mentioning  it  to  you  at  all.  Alas  I 
how  easily,  how  undesignedly,  may  one  do  wrong. 

"  But  you  call  on  me  for  particulars.  I  had  better  suppress 
them,  I  think,  but  that  I  suppose  is  to  be  cautious  too  late.  So 
I  will  even  tell  you,  as  well  as  I  can  recollect  them,  the  contents 
of  this  letter.  Indeed  I  recollect  them  perfectly,  and  will  give 
them  to  you,  word  for  word.     These  are  they. 


"  I  am  greatly  at  a  loss  in  what  manner  to  address  you,  even 
now,  that  repeated  trials  have  convinced  me,  that  my  subject 
can  only  be  discussed  in  a  letter. 

"  Never  I  trust  shall  I  forget  the  obligations  which  I  owe  to 
your  generosity.  All  that  I  am,  my  education,  my  character, 
my  fortune,  I  owe  entirely  to  you.  These  benefits,  perhaps,  a 
different  mind  would  labour  to  forget,  and  it  would  be  still 
more  natural  to  avoid  adding  to  their  number,  but  as  to  me,  I 
think  I  may  venture  to  affirm  that  I  never  shall  forget  them. 

"  In  v.'hat  terms  shall  I  offer  a  proposal,  by  your  assent  to 
which,  all  former  obligations,  great  as  they  are,  will  be  un- 
speakably surpassed,  though  by  your  rejecting  it,  they  will  be 
nowise  diminished ! 

"  When  I  reflect  upon  the  beauty,  accomplishments  and  fea- 
tures of  your  daughter,  and  upon  my  own  defects,  I  am  prompted 
to  bury  my  aspiring  thoughts  in  oblivion,  since  should  your  con- 
sent to  my  seeking  her  favour  be  obtained,  what  slender  hopes 
can  I  have  of  success  in  my  application  to  her,  and  would  it  not 
be  unv.ise  and  rash  to  risk  exciting  your  indignation,  for  a 
purpose  which  should  I  be  so  happy  as  to  gain  vour  consent,  may 


il8 

still  have  insuperable  obstacles  to  encounter,  in  the  pre-occupled 
affections,  or  invincible  indifference  of  the  lady  herself? 

"  I  should  not  be  a  man,  however,  I  should  not  deserve  that 
rank  in  your  good  opinion  which  I  have  hitherto  possessed,  if 
I  did  not  somewhat  trust  to  my  own  integrity,  if  I  did  not 
ascribe  to  myself  that  merit  which  lies  chiefly  in  discerning  and 
revering  another's  excellence,  and  that  gratitude  which  is  ready 
to  devote  all  my  life,  in  return  for  the  preference  of  a  virtuous 
woman. 

"  I  intreat  you  to  believe  that  this  request  is  not  founded  on 
any  the  slightest  proof  that  your  daughter  regards  me  in  any 
other  light  than  as  her  father's  friend.  Need  I  say  that  I  have 
scrupulously  avoided  making  myself  an  interest  in  her  heart  ? 
Since  to  do  this,  .before  I  had  gained  her  father's  promises  would 
be  equally  inconsistent  with  my  sense  of  justice,  with  my  gra- 
titude to  you,  and  with  my  regard  for  the  happiness  of  the  young 
lady  herself. 

"  I  cannot  say  more,  but  that,  however  you  decide  upon  this 
occasion,  or  any  other  in  which  heaven  may  give  you  power 
over  my  happiness,  I  will  not  question  the  rectitude  of  that  de- 
cision, nor  will  it  be  possible  for  me  to  be  any  other  than  your 
grateful  and  affectionate 


"  What  have  1  done  my  Julia.  I  am  almost  frighted  at  my- 
self.    Fearful,  very  fearful  am  I,  that  I  have  done  wrong. 

"  Having  heard  something  of  this  kind  whispered,  I  took  my 
brother  to  task.  I  knew  he  was  master  of  all  Courtland's  se- 
crets. So  my  brother,  after  some  hesitation  on  his  side,  and 
m^uch  importunity  on  mine,  showed  mc  this  letter,  and  now  have 
I  showed  it  to  you. 

"  You  maj'^  suppose  how  anxious  I  was  to  know  the  answer. 
I  knew  you  then  only  by  repute,  but  what  a  character  for  sense, 
beauty  and  accomplishments  was  yours.  And  deeply  as  I  re- 
\ered  Courtland,  could  I  help  fervently  praying  for  his  success  ? 
This  was  your  father's  reply. 

"  You  will  perceive  Courtland,  that  I  need  not  comment  upon 
your  letter,  after  I  have  told  you  that  my  daughter  considers 


119 

herself,  and  that  all  my  family  considers  her  as  actually  betroth- 
ed to  her  cousin  Watkins,  who  has  been  a  few  years  in  Europe, 
and  whom  we  now  expect  shortly  to  i-eturn  to  solemnize  his 
marriage.  I  will  only  add,  that  I  wish  he  may  possess  in  all 
respects,  a  character  similar  to  yours  :  I  shall  then  as  truly  re- 
joice in  my  son-in-law,  as  I  now  do  in  my  friend. 

L.  F. 

"  And  now,  let  me  repeat,  what  has  your  Jessy  done  ?  Surely 
had  I  thought  you  ignorant  of  this  aifair,  I  should  never  have 
mentioned  it.  There  were,  indeed  no  motives  for  your  father's 
disclosing  it  to  you,  but  since  he  mentioned  it  to  others,  it  was 
natural  to  suppose  that  he  had  made  it  no  secret  with  any  body, 
or  at  least  that  the  rumour,  which  must  first  have  sprung  up 
somewhere  in  your  own  family,  had  reached  )'ou. 

"  I  was  always  afraid  till  now  of  mentioning  any  thing  of  this 
to  you.  You  set  me  an  example  of  reserve  which  I  thought  it 
became  me  faithfully  to  follow.  This  engagement  with  your 
cousin  too,  I  dared  not  to  hint  at  it,  without  some  encourage- 
ment from  you  to  do  so.  And  yet,  communicative  as  you  were 
to  me,  in  all  your  most  intimate  concerns,  and  professing  to 
hide  nothing  of  the  least  moment  that  had  ever  befallen  you,  and 
thinking  it  impossible  that  affairs  of  this  kind,  so  important  and' 
so  recent  too,  should  be  forgotten,  I  knew  not  how  to  think. 

*'  What  unhappy  misapprehensions  sometimes  occur?  You 
cannot  imagine  in  how  many  ways  I  tried  to  account  for,  and 
excuse  what  I  could  not  but  think  a  breach  of  sincerity  in  my 
Julia. 

"  But  are  you  not,  indeed,  my  Julia,  as  your  father  has  asserted, 
actually  betrothed  to  your  cousin?  He  said  you  were,  that  you 
and  all  your  family  considered  it  as  a  positive  engagement.  I 
should  be  deeply  grieved  if  this  disclosure  should  involve  you  in 
anj^  perplexity,  yet  what  ill  consequences  can  it  produce  ? 

"  Are  you  serious,  Sophia  ?  Can  you  indeed,  think  so  lightlv 
of  tlie  filial  duties,  your  father  you  say  has  no  right  to  dictate  your 
marriage  choice  !  A  dubious  and  dangerous  opinion,  beleive  me 
my  friend  :  reconsider  this  subject,  I  beseech  you  remember  the 
sacred  injunction  to  those  who  decide  for  another.  Put  yourself 
beforehand  in  that  other's  place.     Before  you  determine  on  a 


120 

parent's  claims,  recollect  yourself  a  moment,  and  imagine  that 
you  are  the  parent. 

"  And  so,  it  seems,  this  conduct  of  Courtland,  which  I  so 
much  admired  for  its  magnanimity,  does  him  injury  in  your 
opinion.  Being  shortly  independent  in  fortune,  and  a  woman  in 
age,  you  think  it  became  him  to  treat  you  as  a  being  imder  self- 
controul  only. 

"  How  different,  indeed,  did  he  treat  me,  on  a  similar  occa- 
sion. He  knew  that  my  brother  would  zealously  concur  with  his 
wishes,  as  soon  as  they  were  made  known ;  and  would,  perhaps, 
second  them  with  his  injunctions  or  remonstrances,  but  he  dis- 
dained to  owe  success  to  any  thing  but  his  own  merits,  and  ge- 
nerously spared  me  all  that  pain  which  could  not  fail  to  follow 
my  repugnance  to  my  brother's  will,  or  my  compliance  with  it. 

"  With  regard  to  you,  he  sought,  and  surely  could  expect  no- 
thing from  your  father  but  his  permission  to  address  you.  Had 
he  been  your  equal  in  birth,  fortune  and  the  like  ;  had  he  been 
bound  to  your  family  by  no  personal  obligations,  he  might,  with- 
out impropriety  have  treated  you  as  he  treated  me  ;  but  this,  as 
the  case  stood,  would  not  have  been  right.  /  think  so.  In  your 
situation,  I  should  have  looked  for  such  treatment  from  a  man  of 
probity.  Any  attempt  to  prepossess  me  before  my  father's  con- 
currence was,  at  least,  acquired,  would  have  grieved  me  much. 

"  If  young  persons  like  each  other,  in  spite  of  parental  dislikes, 
let  them  persist  in  their  choice ;  but  why  not  do  this  openly  ;  why 
not  set  so  much  value  on  the  will  of  their  parents  as,  at  least,  to 
know  what  it  is  ;  and  try  my  arguments  or  intreaties  to  reconcile 
it  with  their  own.  A  choice  of  this  kind,  disapproved  by  parents, 
jnay  be  best  on  the  whole,  but  certainly  its  benefits  are  immea- 
surably increased  by  their  approving  it. 

"  I  do  not  know  Courtland's  opinions  fully.  I  suspect  he 
would  not  accept  your  love,  were  it  offered  him,  without  your 
father's  sanction  ;  and  yet  if  he  were  placed  in  such  a  situation, 
tliat  the  parent's  inclination,  or  child's  happiness  must  be  sacri- 
ficed, I  am  puzzled  to  think  how  he  ought  to  decide. 


"  Let  me  thank  you,  my  beloved  friend,  with  tears  of  true 
pleasure  for  this  letter.  How  happy  am  I  in  your  love  and  con- 
fidence.    How  zealous  shall  I  be,  and  how  proud  to  deserve  it. 


121 

''  You  cannot  think,  for  I  cannot  describe  my  feelings,  when 
you  first  made  advances  to  me,  and  offered  me  your  friendship. 
Your  first  visit,  how  unlooked  for !  And  your  manners  so  af- 
fectionate and  affable !  Your  inquiries  so  tender  and  free  to  me 
that  was  so  absolute  a  stranger  to  the  world  and  to  you.  While 
you  staid,  I  was  in  a  constant  flutter  ot  surprise.  This  made 
me  awkward  in  accepting  and  returning  all  your  kindnc^sses.  To 
be  sure,  thought  I,  when  you  were  gone,  this  is  some  freak  of 
the  charming  girl ;  as  she  has  some  inquiry  to  make  or  some 
end  to  serve,  which  she  found  no  opportunity  of  making  on  this 
visit ;  but  she  will  not  surely  repeat  it ;  especially  if  it  were  made 
for  my  own  sake,  for  how  coldly  and  ambiguously  have  I  be- 
haved ?  *  , 

"  But  you  came  again  very  soon :  the  very  next  evening, 
gay,  charming  and  blithsome  as  ever.  Do  you  love,  Sophia,  to 
give  pleasure  to  the  lonely  and  forlorn  heart  ?  You  do  ;  then  how 
much  have  you  been  gratified  by  your  intercourse  with  me.  A 
generous,  a  disinterested  delight  has  been  yours !  Your  efforts 
have  been  amply  rewarded  by  their  own  success. 

"  What  a  change  have  I  experienced  since  I  gained  your  love ! 
A  warmth,  grateful  and  delicious,  a  softness  which  I  am  not 
rich  enough  in  words  to  call  by  its  true  name,  has  come  back 
again  to  my  heart.  Come  hack  agam^  I  say,  for  once  I  had  it, 
or  something  very  like  it.  So  much  so  that  I  cannot  tell  where 
lies  the  difference.  'Twas  not  the  emotion  that  I  felt  for 
Marianne  or  Sally.  In  this  there  is  something  more  extatic : 
more  of  gratitude,  I  think,  and  admiration.  Their  love  you 
know  was  due  to  me.  It  began  at  my  birth,  and  grew  as  I 
grew ;  besides,  though  very  good,  they  had  no  remarkable  or 
dazzling  excellence  about  them  ;  such  they  were  as  we  usually 
meet  with,  plain  in  person  and  untutored  in  mind. 

"  No !  what  I  feel  for  you  I  have  not  felt  since  I  was  sixteen, 
yet  it  cannot  you  know  be  love.  Yet  is  there  such  a  difference 
brought  about  by  mere  sex — My  Sophia's  qualities  are  such  as  I 
would  doat  upon  iu  man.  Just  the  same  would  win  my  whole 
heart ;  where  then  is  the  difference  ?  On  my  word  Sophia,  I  see 
none  ;  but  that's  no  proof  that  none  exists.  A  million  of  truths 
there  are,  no  doubt,  that  thy  unsagacious  friend  has  never  seen 
and  never  \vill  see. 

16 


122 

"  How  cold  was  once  my  heart.  How  dreary  was  tny  lone- 
liness !  Yet  I  was  not  conscious  of  it.  I  was  not  discontented. 
The  change  which  your  friendship  has  made,  is  not  by  pains 
removed  but  by  pleasures  added — pleasures  how  ineffable ! 

"  Ignorance,  I  believe,  my  Sophia,  is  the  mother  of  some 
kinds  of  happiness,  at  least  of  quietude :  how  can  we  regret 
what  we  have  never  lost,  and  to  lose  it,  we  must  have  it ;  and 
by  having  it  only  can  we  know  its^-alue.  I  am  now  in  all  ex- 
ternal respects,  just  as  if  I  never  had  a  sister,  but  how  different 
would  my  feelings  be,  if  in  tiaith,  they  never  had  been  born  ? 

"  How  my  mother  shrieked  over  a  breathless  son  who  died  m 
childhood !  But  suppose  the  lad  had  never  been  bom,  then,  as 
now,  she'  would  have  had  but  four  children,  and  she  would  not 
have  lamented  that  they  were  but  four. 

"  Pleasure  and  pain,  my  dear  Sophia,  strangely  run  into,  and 
mingle  with  each  other.  Ignorance,  I  said,  is  the  mother  of 
content,  but  I  would  not  for  all  that  be  ignorant.  Contentment, 
methinks,  is  no  desirable  thing;  pleasure,  indeed,  cannot  be 
had,  without  the  risk  at  i^ast  of  acconipanying  or  ensuing  pain  ; 
but  this  mixture  of  bitter  and  sweet,  is  better  than  the  utterly 
insipid  ;  better  than  the  finished,  tasteless  potion  of  indifference. 

"  But  why  do  I  call  the  broken  bonds  of  sympathy  pain  ? 
Why,  indeed,  do  I  call  them  broken  P  Death  severs  us  not  from 
those  we  love.  They  still  exist,  not  in  our  remembrance  only, 
but  with  true  existence  ;  and  if  good,  their  being  is  an  happy  one. 
What  more  should  we  wish,  and  why  should  life,  with  all  its 
cares  and  maladies,  be  prayed  for,  either  for  ourselves  or  our 
friends  ? 

"  My  friend  removes  to  the  next  village,  or  he  crosses  the 
sea,  but  I  am  not  much  unhappy  even  at  our  parting,  and  that 
sadness  is  soon  succeeded  by  a  sweet  tranquility.  He  is  living 
and  he  is  prosperous,  and  forgets  me  not,  and  sometime  I  shall 
see  him  again,  aad  that  consoles  me  in  his  absence,  but  how 
blind  is  my  sagacity. 

"  How  know  I  that  he  lives — tliat  he  is  virtuous  and  happy, 
that  he  gives  me  still  a  place  in  his  remembrance  ?  Is  he  not  a 
mortal  creature,  and  encompassed  therefore  by  the  causes  oi 
sickness  and  death,  beset  by  temptations,  and  liable  to  new 
affections  that  exclude  the  old  ? 


123 

"  But  intelligaice  is  brought  that  he  is  dead,  and  why  should 
I  weep !  I  grieved  that  he  has  gone,  from  perishable  feverish 
life,  to  blest  eternity,  where  maladies  of  mind  and  ills  of  body 
betide  him  no  more. 

"  But  I  have  lost  him.  No,  while  he  lived  I  had  lost  him, 
indeed,  for  the  space  between  us  was  so  wide  that  I  saw  him 
never,  and  heard  from  him  but  rarely,  but  now  has  he  not 
come  home  to  me  ?  and  do  not  I  hourly  commune  with  him  ?  Am 
I  not  sure  of  his  existence  and  safety,  for  my  friend  was  good ; 
and  is  he  not  more  present  to  my  thoughts,  and  more  the 
guardian  of  my  virtue  and  partaker  of  my  sympathy  than  ever  ? 

"  But  I  shall  never  see  him  more."  Indeed !  and  whose  fault 
will  be  that  I  must  die  like  him  ;  indeed  it  is  uncertain  when, 
but  then  we  shall  meet.  And  what  then  but  m)"^  own  unworthi- 
ness  ;  my  own  misdeeds  shall  sever  us  ?  Nothing  but  guilt  Avill 
divide  us  from  each  other  dead,  though  virtue  itself  was  unable 
to  unite  us  living.  And  how  invigorating  to  my  fortitude,  what 
barrier  against  temptation  is  that  belief? 

"  No,  my  Sophia,  death  is  no  calamity  to  virtue,  to  dead  or  to 
living  worth.  Our  wailings  for  the  dead,  are  breathed  only  by 
thoughtless  or  erring  sensibility.  Is  it  not  so  ?  I  would  not 
affirm  too  positively,  or  too  much.  I  know  so  little !  yet  J 
can't  but  think  that  many  of  our  woes  are  selfish  woes. 

"  Yet  I  mourned  for  my  sisters :  but  rebuked  myself  while  I 
mourned.  Such  reflections  as  these  comforted  me  ;  but  they 
would  not  come  at  first,  nor  would  they  stay  long,  till  time  had 
soothed  me  into  some  composure.  Now  and  then  at  thoughtful 
moments,  when  taken,  if  I  may  say  so,  unawares,  my  tears 
gushed  anew  and  my  breast  was  agonized  by  sobs. 

"  Still  have  I,  as  I  long  have  had,  something  that  may  be 
called  sorrow,  but  a  sweet,  a  chastening,  an  heart-improving 
sorrow.  Most  dearly  do  I  prize  it.  For  the  world  I  would 
not  part  with  my  sorrow.  Glad  am  I  that  I  once  had  sisters, 
and  I  have  them  still,  but  I  would  not  have  them  any  where  on 
earth. 

"  It  seems  to  be,  Sophia,  that  the  only  true  grief  is  connected 
with  guilt;  every  other  has"  so  many  gleams  and  respites,  and 
is  so  transient,  and  carries  in  its  train  so  man)'  after  joy?  !   But 


124 

remorse  !  I'hc  sense  of  shame  deserved,  the  weight  of  human 
and  divine  indignation — that  must  be  agony  indeed. 

"  But  how  have  I  been  thus  led  on!  When  I  sat  down,  1 
designed  a  very  different  letter,  but  one  is  carried  forward  in- 
sensibly, when  the  heart  knows  no  restraint,  and  to  thee,  Julia» 
mine  knows  none.  'Tis  now  too  late  to  say  all  that  I  meant  to 
say,   but  another  packet  will  serve  as  well.     Adieu. 

JESSICA. 


"  And  will  I  continue  to  love  you  ?  Will  I  live  with  you  at 
Wortleyfield  ?  Indeed  I  will  my  Sophia.  I  will  share  with  you  in 
your  retirement. 

"  But,  alas  !  And  why  this  pang?  My  mother, Sophia !  while 
she  lives,  1  must  be  her  fosterer,  and  her  death  only  can  make 
it  possible  to  join  thee  in  thy  sweet  retreat. 

"  It  must  come  sometime  to  be  sure  ;  she  is  old,  and  it  must 
come  soon.  I  cannot  deny  this,  but  I  am  able  sometimes  to 
forget  it,  and  I  love  to  forget  it. 

"  I  did  not  tell  thee,  my  friend,  that  /  was  the  sage  that  I 
had  painted.  I  look  forward  to  the  death  of  one  so  dear  and 
the  tear  will  start.  My  heart  will  ache  when  I  sometimes  look 
back.  Yet  I  want  not  fortitude.  I  hope  while  my  reason  fully 
exerts  itself  I  shall  never,  I  believe,  despond.  Neither  in  the 
foresight  or  the  sufferance  of  such  evils,  evils  which  no  virtue  in 
me  can  elude  ;  that  owe  their  truth  to  no  degeneracy  in  myself 
or  my  friends,  shall  I  want  the  needful  consolation.  I  thank  my 
God,  who  has  as  yet,  never  suffered  me  to  want  it. 

"  I  will  live  with  thee,  Sophia,  but  thou  knowest  the  conditions  ; 
put  thyself  in  my  place  and  let  me  hear  thee  say< — Many,  many 
years  may  our  scheme  remain  unaccomplished. 

"  But  what  a  scheme  is  tfiis.  You  cannot,  surely,  be  in  earnest. 
No,  no,  Sophia,  thy  stars  will  never  permit  that.  And  yet  the 
very  causes  that  attract  a  multitude  of  wooers,  will,  in  my 
friend's  case,  obstruct  their  success ;  thousands  will  solicit  her 
Jiand,  but  who  can  deserve  the  boon? 

"  How  much  to  be  regretted  that  your  equal  should  never  be 
found !  You  do  not  think  so,  you  prefer,  or  say  you   do,  the 


125 

single  life ;  but  that  my  Sophia,  shall  I  say,  is  one  of  your  errors. 
Yet  before  I  say  that,  I  should  know  perhaps,  the  grounds  of 
your  aversion. 

"  You  despair  of  finding  one  that  will  please  you  ;  while  that 
despair  lasts,  I  see  not  how  you  can  think  otherwise  than  with 
preference  of  singlehood,  and  indeed  I  too,  am  almost  desperate 
on  your  account,  yet  if  such  a  one  should  offer  and  be  accepted, 
fervently  should  I  rejoice  in  my  Sophia's  destiny,  for  wedlock  is 
a  blissful  state.  Excellent  and  happy  as  thou  art,  my  Sophia,  far 
more  so  wilt  thou  be  in  the  character  of  wife  and  mother. 

"  This  Watkins  then  is  nothing  to  you.  Methinks,  I  pity 
him  for  sufferings  to  come.  Returning  with  such  hopes  can  he 
see  my  Sophia  and  not  love  her  ?  But  is  not  my  friend  a  little  for- 
ward? To  predetermine  the  rejection  of  one,  merely  because 
your  common  friends  have  decreed  your  union,  without  regard 
to  any  thing  but  family  aggrandizement.  Not  a  good  motive, 
perhaps,  if  it  were  the  single  motive,  but  it  cannot  be  the  single 
one  with  your  friends.  Kindred,  fortune,  equality  of  birth, 
contiguity  of  estates  ought  surely  to  weigh  something  even  in 
your  scale,  but  especially  in  that  of  your  friends.  Worth,  talents, 
generous  temper,  equable  deportment,  love,  may  likewise  be 
required  by  both,  and  these,  though  not  the  only  weights,  may 
and  ought  to  be,  by  far  the  most  ponderous. 

"  Personal  qualities,  however,  may  be  every  thing  with  you. 
The  other  may  not  claim  the  least  regard  from  you,  but  if  these 
extensive  recominendations  will  not  promote  your  cousin's  suit, 
they  surely  ought  not  to  be  obstructions  to  it. 

"  But  you  it  seems  are  contented.  My  brother  say  you, 
Hannah?  Very  well.  I  will  be  there  in  a  moment.  I  will  hear 
what  my  brother  has  to  say,  Sophia,  it  is  not  often  that  he  visits 
us  at  this  hour ;  something  of  moment  must  bring  him,  and 
then  will  I  be  back  again  to  my  pen. 


"  Since  our  correspondence  began,  I  have  been  an  indefati- 
gable penwoman.  Something  may  grow  out  of  this  in  time.  And 
yet,  as  I  said  formerly,  it  is  not  the  mere  writing  or  prating, 
the  merely   putting  words   together  with  the  lips  or  pen,  that 


126 

tends  to  improve ;  quite  Ihe  contrary  I  fear  with  mc  and  my 
careless  manner,  in  which  at  every  step,  method  must  be  broken 
and  perspicuity  be  outraged. 

"  Yet  I  write  every  day,  I  think  with  more  ease.  I  mean 
not  as  to  words  or  thoughts,  for  those  that  come  I  take,  and  you 
know  every  child,  just  mistress  of  her  tongue,  has  a  ceaseless 
volubility,  but  merely  as  to  management  of  pen  and  fingers. 
This  grows  continually  easier  with  me.  But  I  was  going  to  tell 
you  what  occasioned  my  brother's  unseasonable  visit. 

"  What  say  you,  Jessy,  said  he,  somewhat  abruptly,  to  an 
addition  to  your  family — to  a  boarder.  A  boarder,  brother!  Let 
me  rather  ask  in  my  turn  what  you  say  to  it  ?  Nay,  'tis  for  you 
to  decide.  If  you  can  reconcile  yourself  to  such  a  charge,  such 
an  enlargement  of  your  family,  it  may  not,  perhaps,  be  ineligi- 
ble as  to  the  person.  But  who  is  the  person  and  what  will 
he  expect  from  us  ?  all  you  know  must  depend  upon  that.  I 
scarcely  know  how  to  describe  him ;  he  is  one  of  middle  size, 
hasjnodesty,  reserve,  is  a  stranger,  lately  arrived  from  Europe, 
knoAvs  no  one  here  ;  yet  lie  has  the  air  of  one  not  meanly  born, 
nor  penuriously  educated.  He  wishes  for  a  snug,  quiet,  humble 
abode,  in  a  small,  frugal  and  decent  family.  The  thought  oc- 
curred that  a  single  person,  who  chose  to  live  in  his  manner, 
might  be  no  insuitable  guest  to  you ;  he  is  v/illing  to  pay  well, 
much  more  than  the  additional  expense  of  his  entertainment,  and 
that  will  be  worth  considering  by  you  and  mamma.  What  say 
you  to  the  scheme  ?  Yes  or  no  as  you  please.  If  we  decline, 
the  accommodation  he  v^^ants  will  easily  be  found  elsewhere. 
Why,  brother,  I  cannot  answer  you  immediately.  Blamina 
may  not  be  willing,  so  long  used  as  she  has  been  to  one  track, 
and  one  round  of  objects,  and  indeed,  the  same  is  the  case  with 
me.  The  presence  of  a  man  and  a  stranger  under  this  roof,  is 
so  great  an  innovation  that — but  if  the  man  be  modest  an'^  dm- 
pliant,  can  put  up  with  an  humble  fare  and  worse  cookeiy,  and 
especially  if  you  approve  his  character  and  recommend  him,  I 
see  not  what  objection  can  be  made.  But  surely  he  cannot  be 
content  with  our  frugality;  we  shall  be  obliged  to  enlarge  our 
scheme  of  living.  No,  no,  I  should  not  have  thought  of  it  had 
any  thing  of  that  sort  been  needful,  you  have  had  but  too  much 
trouble  on  your  hands  alreadv.     I  would  be  much  more  willing 


127 

to  lessen  than  increase  it,  but  the  customs  of  Colden,  that  is  his 
name,  are  very  remarkable,  as  to  lodging  and  diet,  and  are  so 
singularly  plain  and  simple,  that  you  will  scarcely  be  conscious 
of  any  addition  to  your  household. 

"  You  have  only  to  set  before  him,  moniing,  noon  and  night, 
at  your  own  eating  hours,  a  pint  of  milk,  in  an  earthen  or  tin 
porringe*-,  with  a  cut  or  two  of  just  such  brown  bread  as  vou 
make  already  for  your  own  use,  in  the  little  back  room  above, 
so  tight,  airy  and  clean ;  let  a  blanket  be  laid  upon  the  sacking 
bottom  and  his  bed  is  made.  To  all  other  particulars  he  will 
pay  the  due  attention  himself.  But  who  is  this  man  ?  Where 
did  you  light  upon  him  ? 

"  I  sometimes  call,  you  know,  at  Philipson's ;  I  was  there  a 
few  days  ago.  They  propose  it  seems  to  leave  the  city,  and 
mentioned  to  me  their  anxiety  to  procure  suitable  accommoda- 
tions for  one  that  had  lived  with  them  for  the  last  three  months, 
and  to  whom  their  removal  from  town,  hindered  from  any  longer 
giving  entertainment.     Who  was  he  ?   I  asked. 

"  They  could  tell  nothing  but  his  name,  and  relate  his  habits. 
They  were  such  as  I  have  just  mentioned ;  they  were  simple  ancl 
always  the  same.  He  talked  but  little,  spending  his  time  abroad 
Gniefly,  or  in  his  chamber.  What  were  his  engagements  abroad  ? 
No  business  they  believed ;  he  went  out  at  different  hours,  mere- 
ly it  seemed,  for  recreation,  as  they  and  their  neighbours  had 
sometimes  met  him  strolling  in  the  fields.  He  was  always 
sedate,  and  sometimes  had  an  aspect  bordering  upon  melancholy, 
spoke  affably  and  gently  when  he  spoke  at  11,  but  seemed  to 
entertain  a  preference  for  solitude  and  silence.  What  company 
did  he  keep  >  None  at  all  they  believed.  No  one  visited  him  ; 
they  had  never  seen  him  in  the  company  of  others ;  his  demeanor 
had  always  been  so  mild  that  they  loved  him  much,  and  though 
his  accommodation  cost  them  little  or  nothing,  he  had  offered  of 
his  own  accord,  and  had  punctually  paid  the  highest  price.  For 
their  own  sake,  as  well  as  for  the  sake  of  profit  they  were  loath 
to  lose  him,  but  it  coulcl  not  be  avoided,  and  they  were  only 
anxious  that  he  might  be  accommodated  as  much  to  his  mind, 
somewhere  else. 

"  These  particulars  laid  some  hold  on  my  curiosity,  and  re- 
flecting on  the   situatioji   of  your  family,  I   thought   that   his 


128 

residence  with  you,  might  chance  to  prove  highly  and  equally 
agreeable  to  all  parties.  Being  then  in  his  room,  I  requested 
them  to  call  him  down  to  me ;  he  came  at  the  summons. 

"  His  appearance  was  very  prepossessing.  At  first  view  I 
ahould  have  judged  him  to  be  under  twenty-five ;  but  there 
quickly  appeared  a  stedfastness  and  forethought  in  his  lookS; 
inconsistent  v/ith  so  immature  an  age.  His  manners  were  polished 
and  graceful,  in  no  ordinary  degree. 

"  Phillipson  mentioned  to  him  my  ability  to  point  out  to  him, 
a  suitable  lodging.  I  described  to  him  your  household  and 
dwelling,  and  told  him  that  I  doubted  not  my  sister's  willingness 
to  entertain  him  on  the  same  terms  as  the  Phillipson's  had  done. 

"  His  countenance  assumed  a  less  thoughtful  air,  and  he 
seemed  to  receive  my  offer  with  pleasure.  He  explained  his 
own  modes  and  expectations,  and  requiring  a  few  more  parti- 
culars respecting  you  and  your  economy,  cheerfully  assented  to 
the  scheme.  1  promised  to  speak  to  you  about  it  immediately, 
but  had  no  opportunity  before  noAV.  I  have  seen  him  to-day, 
and  he  says  if  agreeable  to  you,  he  will  take  possession  on 
Monda}' night.  You  know,  our  mother,  in  such  a  case  will 
leave  the  decision  to  you,  and  so  what  say  you  ? 

"  What  can  I  say  !  Your  judgment  must  decide  for  me,  brc' 
ther.     If  you  think  it  proper. 

"  I  see  no  objection  to  it  I  confess. 

"  You  say  he  is  a  stranger  in  the  city. 

"  So  it  seems,  but  he  has  made  himself  so,  by  his  privacy. 
Phillipson's  family  know  him,  as  well  as  long  domestic  and 
curious  observation  of  gossips,  old  and  young,  breeched  and 
petticoatcd,  can  make  tliem.  They  praise  his  gentleness,  so- 
briety, and  circumspection.  His  countenance  speaks  very 
strongly  in  his  favour  with  me ;  so  do  his  manners  and  words, 
they  exact  respect  from  me.     Never  saw  I  dignity  so  visible. 

"  Well  then  let  him  come,  I  will  be  prepared  for  him  on 
Monday. 

"  And  now,  So'phia,  let  me  ask  myself  why  I  rehearsed  this 
family  dialogue  to  you  ?  As  if  whatever  chanced  to  occupy  my 
thoughts,  deserved  a  place  in  your's.  You  will  not  perhaps 
comprehend  how  so  small  an  incident  should  acquire  importance, 
but  you  know  the  humble,  solitary  and  obscuie   life   which  I 


129 

have  always  till  now  led.  Shut  up  in  this  cottage  singly  witli 
my  mother,  and  having  no  intercourse  with  the  rest  of  the  world, 
except  with  my  brother,  and  with  your  charming  self,  to  become 
all  of  a  sudden,  inmate  with  a  stranger  ;  a  man  too,  of  no  mean 
deportment  j  his  real  character  and  past  adventures  unknown : 
no  wonder  that  I  feel  a  little  disquiet ;  some  fluttering  expecta- 
tions;  as  if  entering  on  a  new  scene. 

"  I  know  I  shall  be  extremely  desirous  of  obliging  our  guest, 
but  doubt  I  shall  be  awkward,  and  be  either  too  reserved  from 
dread  of  offending,  or  too  officious  from  the  desire  to  please. 
How  are  little  things  magnified  by  inexperience,  and  how  does 
my  ignorance  degrade  me  from  the  womanly  sedateness  and 
address  of  eighteen,  to  the  childish  blunders,  and  timidities  of 
twelve ! 

"  But  again,  what  is  all  this  to  you  ?  I  will  say  no  more  upon 
this  trifling  subject,  and  cannot  return,  just  now,  to  that  which 
I  left  upon  my  brother's  entrance.     So  adieu. 


''  What  a  sweet  encourager  art  thou,  Sophia  !  Can  you  truly 
say  that  my  prating  pen  constitutes  your  chief  pleasure  ?  Can 
you  sincerely  request  me  to  continue  the  little  tale  of  all  that  for 
whatever  reason,  finds  an  interest  in  my  bosom  ? 

"  And  yet,  now  1  think  of  it,  this  is  acting  but  like  yourself; 
and  as  I  should  applaud  myself  for  acting  were  I  in  your 
circumstances.  To  be  thus  surprised  at  proofs  of  condescension 
and  sympathy  in  my  friends  ;  is  it  not  confessing  indirectly  that 
I  did  not  expect  to  find  }ou  as  good  as  you  ought  to  be  ?  Fie 
upon  me  for  an  envidus,  or  at  least,  a  negligent  observer ! 

Methinks,  they  that  are  themselves  good,  would  find  so  many 
inducements,  and  advantages  in  goodness,  that  specimens  of 
virtue  in  others  would  never  make  them  stare,  as  i  do,  and  ex- 
claim. They  would  only  feel  surprise  when  instances  of  folly  or 
vice  occurred.  Yet  it  is  not  so  with  me,  though  without  that 
experience  which  teaches  us,  perhaps,  not  to  judge  of  others  bv 
our  own  hearts !  Can  it  be  that  I  judge  thus  hastily  of  others,  by 
my  own  feelings  ?  I  believe  it  is. 

17 


130 

"  I  say  to  myself,  Sophia  is  generous,  kind,  affectionate. 
Strange,  that  she  is  so,  since  I  in  her  situation  should  be  other- 
wise. I  should  be  arrogant,  disdainful,  selfish;  and  thus,  un- 
thinkingly, do  we  afford  a  criterion  of  our  own  character,  in  the 
judgment  that  we  form  of  others.  A  just  punishment  upon  us  I 
think. 

"  And  yet  if  the  matter  be  a  little  more  deeply  considered, 
that  inference  may  not  hold  :  are  we  not  taught  self-diffidence, 
self-blame,  and  is  not  cliarity  to  others  chiefly  built  upon  our 
belief  of  the  strength  of  those  temptations  that  have  made  them 
wicked,  and  which  had  we  been  exposed  to  them,  would  have 
had  the  like  effects  upon  us  ?  Why  else  are  we  so  earnestly 
warned  to  watchfidness  ;  to  rely  upon  our  divine  helper,  and  to 
lay  not  more  stress  on  deliverance  from  evil,  than  on  freedom 
from  temptation  ? 

''•  But  v;hy  to  thee,  my  friend,  do  I  thus  run  into  the  mo- 
ralizing strain  ?  Poor  and  crude  must  be  my  thoughts,  on 
subjects  like  this,  and  not  worthy  of  my  Sophia^s  notice — Hold ! 
is  not  that  another  proof  of  my  misjudging  selfishness  ?  Is  not 
this  to  give  to  my  friend  that  arrogance  which  I  should  possess 
in  her  circumstances,  and  that  all  my  intercourse  with  her  and 
observation  of  her  conduct,  show  to  be  foreign  to  her  temper  } 

"  It  is,  and  so  I  will  hencefcrth  if  I  can,  have  done  with 
apologies.  I  will  talk  to  you  without  reserve,  and  be  apprehen- 
sive of  nothing  less  than  of  tiring  or  disgusting  you  ;  and  now  to 
return  to  what  I  will  own,  fills  much  of  my  thoughts. 

"  This  stranger  has  not  come  among  us  yet.  My  brother  is 
to  bring  him  hither  this  evening.  The  poor  Jessy  is  in  tremors. 
And  for  what?  Because  it  is  a  stranger  that  is  coming.  'Tis 
partly  that  but  not  ail.  If  the  stranger  were  a  female,  I  should 
not,  methinks,  have  these  unquiet  feelings.  A  female  ont  can 
love  and  trust,  and  take  without  reluctance  or  misgiving  to  one's 
confidence  ;  but  a  7nan  !  That  is  a  different  case,  Sophia. 

"  And  yet  my  brother  is  a  man  ;  so  vvras  my  father ;  and 
Ambrose,  who  daily  shows  his  honest  face  within  our  door  at 
morning  and  eve,  excites  no  apprehension  or  uneasiness.  And 
what  more  is  this  Golden  ?  But  he  comes  not  as  a  visitant ;  he 
comes  to  take  up  his  abode  with  us,  to  eat  and  sleep  under  this 
roof;  besides  I  never  saw  his  face  before,  and  my  brother  says 


ISl 

he  is  young;  loftily  reserved ;  gravely  dignified ;  severely  beau- 
tifulT  and  such  a  one  is  coming,  not  to  see  us  and  to  talk  an 
hour  and  away  again,  but  to  live  with  us.  O  dear!  I  wish 
almost,  that  I  had  not  consented  to  his  coming. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  be  looked  at  too  closely,  for  too  long  a  time. 
In  all  guises  and  attitudes,  a  man's  scrutiny  is  painful,  embar- 
rassing. I  shall  never  be  at  ease  while  he  is  present,  that  is 
certain.  I  shall  think  him  always  gazing  at  me,  watching  my 
looks,  and  trying  to  read  my  thoughts. 

"  No,  I  will  not  consent  to  his  coming.  I  will  plead  the 
trouble  of  a  new  member  of  the  family.  I  will  make  my  mother 
object  to  it.  AH  about  us  is  too  humble  and  too  coarse  for  such 
a  guest.  'Twill  never  do.  I  w^onder  at  my  brother  for  not 
seeing  its  impropriety. 

"  And  yet  it  is  too  late  to  make  objections  now.  It  will  appear 
girlish  and  capricious ;  it  cannot  be  avoided,  and  I  must  make 
the  best  of  it,  I  believe.  And  truth  to  say,  these  doublings  and 
misgivings  ai-e  verj^  foolish  ;  they  rise  in  vanity  or  inexperience, 
and  at  this  age  ought  to  be  trampled  on.  Let  him  come  then,  if 
he  will. 

"  I  have  made  all  things  ready  for  his  reception.  The g-arde?i 
room  will  just  suit  him.  It  was  mine,  to  sit  in  only,  and  to 
work.  My  chamber  adjoins  it,  but  I  must  sit  and  work  there 
no  longer  now ;  but  I  do  not  like  that.  How  shall  I  part  with 
this  sweet  recess?  When  they  were  alive  it  was  my  sister's  work 
room,  but  now  it  seems,  I  must  enter  it  no  more.  A  stranger 
will  possess  it  and  a  man  !  How  chilling  is  that  thought  my  Julia  ? 

"  Besides  my  own  bed  room  is  so  near ;  a  slight  partition  di- 
vides them,  for  the  tv/o  apartments  were  once  the  same,  and  the 
two  doors  are  not  ten  inches  asunder.  I  cannot  go  on  ;  I  cannot 
move  about ;  I  cannot  stir  a  step,  but — 

"  O  dear !  O  dear !  It  must  never  be.  Why  did  I  not  think 
of  these  things  before  ?  In  time  to  prevent — but  it  still  is  time. 
It  shall  be  time.  I  will  run  away  to  my  brother's  "  this  very 
moment,  and  tell  him  to  excuse  me  to  the  stranger.  Lay  down, 
pen,  the  while. 


132 


"  I  am  quite  disconcerted,  Sophia,  my  brother  was  gone*out, 
gone  to  Phillipson's,  they  told  me,  for  the  hour  fixed  upon  is 
come.  I  had  wasted  so  much  time  in  writing,  that  I  knew  not 
the  exact  time.  So  I  hastened  back  again  with  new  fears,  lest 
they  should  come  and  I  be  out ;  my  brother  might  well  wonder 
and  be  angry  at  my  absence,  when  the  hour  had  been  so  accu- 
rately preconcerted. 

"  They  had  not  come,  however,  so  here  am  I  again  at  my  pen. 
'Tis  some  relief  j  a  sweet  consolation  to  be  writing  this,  to  thee, 
my  Sophia ;  'tis  so  like  talking  as  we  used  to  do,  side,  by  side  at 
the  very  window  of  this  garden  room,  that  now  must  witness 
these  delightful  interviews  no  longer ;  and  that,  forgetful  crea- 
ture that  I  was,  escaped  my  thoughts.  Thou  and  I  at  these 
precious  hours,  used  to  withdraw  thither,  and  converse  without 
fear  of  interruption  and  intrusion,  but  now — 

"  Cost  what  it  will  I  will  revoke  my  consent ;  and  yet  it  will 
look  strange,  whimsical,  capricious,  at  the  very  time  when  he 
has  actually  come.  But  how,  where  shall  1  receive  my  friend 
when  she  comes,  if  dispossessed  of  this  room  ? 

"  I  will  not  part  with  it,  that  I  am  resolved  ;  and  seasonably 
resolved,  for  they  have  come.  Two  person's  by  their  footsteps  ; 
my  brother's  one,  the  other  a  stranger's.  They  ask  for  me,  and 
here  comes  Hannah,  with  their  message  of  "  Tell  Jessica  I 
want  her." 


'•'■  Ah !  my  friend  I  he  has  come  indeed !  I  had  not  presence 
of  mind  to  declare  my  resolution,  so  that  h.e  has  actually  taken 
up  his  abode  with  us. 

"  What  changes  may  one  short  day  make  in  one's  condition  ! 
Methinks  I  am  not  the  same  as  when  I  last  wrote,  yet  things 
have  not  been  quite  as  I  expected  :  but  I  will  tell  you  every  thing 
in  order  as  it  happened. 

"  By  the  way,  who  would  have  thought  that  I  should  ever 
have  become  so  fond  of  the  pen.  My  brother  looked  in  just 
i^ow — Writing  Jessica?  This  is  a  new  passion,  indifference  to 
books  is  usually  coupled  with  antipathy  to  writing.     I  am  glad 


V.O  see  it,  my  dear,  and  hope  when  one  is  come,  the  other  will 
not  linger  long  behind. 

"  So  do  I  brother,  but  Jessy  always  loved  to  talk  when  her 
heart  was  full,  and  any  one  would  listen  to  her,  and  this  is  but 
talking. 

"  Not  quite  true,  Jessy.  Somewhat  more  was  needed,  than 
a  full  heart  and  docile  listener.  The  last  thou  always  had'st  in 
me,  but  you  wanted  what  only  your  charming  correspondent 
could  furnish,  and  may  you  value  the  new  found  blessing  as  it 
deserves. 

"  I  join  in  thy  prayer  brother.  And  Sophia,  it  is  true.  To 
any  other  than  my  charming  correspondent,  I  never  could  have 
fretted  thus  without  reserve — But  this  again  is  rambling  from  my 
theme  ;  to  return  to  it  then  : 

"  This  is  my  sister  Jessica,  Mr.  Colden  ;  a  good  girl,  who 
will  never  want  the  will  at  least  to  oblige  you.  I  curtsied  loAv 
to  what  I  supposed  was  a  low  bow  from  him,  for  I  could  not 
look  up,  nor  utter  any  thing  like  welcome.  I  had  a  prett)'- 
speech  ready,  that  by  oft  repeating  I  hoped  to  have  by  rote,  for 
this  occasion,  and  I  had  not  forgotten  it,  but  to  articulate  a 
syllable  was  not  in  my  power.  How  is  it,  Sophia,  that  I  who 
have  so  much  of  an  ideal  kind  of  magnanimity ;  who  so  much 
value  gracefulness  in  others,  should  yet  be  destitute  myself? 

*'  To  look  at  him  with  no  immodest  stedfastness,  with  intel- 
ligence all  benignant  and  smiling ;  the  utterance  ready  and  fluent ; 
in  words  all  promptitude,  in  gestures  all  harmony !  That  was 
my  previous  wish,  and  I  laboured  for  it  but  in  vain.  What 
cowardice  to  tremble,  shrink,  and  look  down  at  the  scowling 
wrath  of  a  fellow  creature.  What  folly  to  be  thus  dismayed  in 
the  presence  of  benignity  and  kindness,  merely  because  they  sit 
upon  the  brow  of  a  vian  and  a  stranger  ! 

"  But  so  it  was :  thy  Jessica  was  thus  cowardly,  thus  silly. 
My  brother  saw  my  weakness,  and  his  eye,  when  mine  chanced, 
to  steal  a  glance  at  him,  rebuked  me  for  it.  He  endeavoured  by 
easy  conversation,  to  reinstate  my  composure. 

"  I  utterly  forgot  my  objections  to  his  residence  with  us.  All 
were  swallowed  up  in  these  new  tumults.  I  struggled  hard  to 
look  up,  but  could  not,  for  fear  of  encountering  his  glances. 
WHiat  a  simpleton  was  I,  sheer  vanity  *tis  plain.     To  imagine 


134 

myself  the  only  object  in  the  room  claiming  his  scrutiny,  yet  till 
row,  I  had  not  thought  myself  vain. 

*'  My  brother  desired  him  to  look  at  that  spar  on  the  mantle- 
piere.  In  doing  this,  thought  I,  he  will  turn  away  his  eyes 
from  me,  so  I  will  venture  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him. 

It  soon  appeared,  greatly  to  my  relief,  and  somewhat  to  my 
humiliation,  that  no  object  attracted  less  of  his  attention  than 
mvself.  He  set  me  down  at  once,  no  doubt,  from  the  childish- 
ness of  my  demeanor,  as  an  ill  bred  girl,  and  therefore,  not 
mrriting  a  second  glance. 

"  I  looked  at  him  while  he  bent  down  his  head  to  examine  the 
storfe.  The  candle  stood  beside,  so  that  all  its  light  fell  upon 
his  countenance  and  form.  My  view  was  momentary,  and  yet 
it  left  nothing  I  believe,  to  be  supplied  by  after  observation,  I 
have  seen  him  since  in  different  attitudes,  but  they  are  all  new 
positions  of  the  picture  which  I  saw  at  first. 

"  But  why  all  this  minuteness  ?  Did  I  never  see  a  man  before  ? 
Never,  my  Sophia,  in  the  present  situation.  Had  I  met  him  in 
the  street,  in  a  public  room,  or  a  stage  boat,  none  of  these 
emotions,  none  of  this  cautious  yet  eager  scrutiny  had  happened ; 
for  then  you  know  there  had  been  no  need.  But  he  was  one  with 
whom  I  was  todzvell ;  whom  I  was  to  see  the  livelong  day,  with 
whom  I  was  to  sit  in  the  same  room,  and  at  the  same  board, 
whose  accommodation  I  was  to  study,  and  whose  constant  and 
near  approach  would  bring  about  conversation  between  us. 
Surely  I  had  some  interest  in  examining  the  face  and  manners  of 
one,  in  this  relation  to  me. 

"  And  I  did  examine  them,  for  he  left  me  at  full  liberty  to  do 
so.  After  one  or  two  glances  stolen  at  his  face,  while  he  talked 
to  my  brother,  I  perceived  clearly  enough,  that  he  did  not  think 
of  me  as  of  one  present :  never  looked  towards  me,  but  as  it 
seemed  by  chance,  and  never  spoke  to  me  at  all. 

*'  Shall  I  own  to  thee,  Sophia,  that  this  neglect  a  little  mortified 
thy  proud  friend!  but  it  was  of  some  benefit;  it  placed  me 
somewhat  at  my  ease.  I  was  able  to  look  at  him  attentively  and 
listen  to  his  discourse.  My  throbs  disappeared,  and  my  fingers 
sought  no  longer  employment,  by  drumming  on  the  arm  of  my 
chair. 


J 


135 

"  Yet  I  ought  not  to  be  mortified,  I  think,  for  this  man  is  not 
sullen,  contemptuous.  He  forgot  me  but  not,  it  seemed,  be- 
cause of  my  own  insignificance  and  littleness,  but  the  greater 
excellence  of  those  objects  that  employed  his  attention.  And 
\vhy  should  he  think  of  me  r  Never  before,  Sophia,  did  I  discover 
so  much  vanity  in  my  heart,  but  I  am  almost  cured  of  it  already ; 
it  has  all  gone  away,  indeed  it  has. 

"  Why,  repeated  I,  as  I  had  put  up  my  hair  before  the  glass, 
going  to  bed,  why  should  he  think  of  me  ?  A  mere  moveable,  a 
drudge,  a  something  useful  in  putting  sticks  together  for  a  fire, 
a  machine  to  pour  out  tea,  to  make  whole  a  rent  garment — that 
is  all. 

"  As  to  person,  what  am  I  ?  Women  have  charmed  merely 
by  their  looks,  their  symmetry,  their  speaking  eyes,  their  snow- 
white  forehead ;  but  these,  well-a-day,  are  none  of  mine — poor 
unsightly,  brown,  diminutive  thing  that  I  am,  what  are  my 
pretensions  ? 

*'  But  what  a  rambler  am  I  ?  more  than  usual  I  believe.  How 
devious  and  volant  is  my  quill !  but  I  must  restrain  myself  to 
some  degree  of  method ;  else,  instead  of  pleasing,  I  shall  tire 
you  ;  darken  and  bewilder  by  confusion,  instead  of  ranging  my 
ideas  and  my  incidents  in  radiant  files,  and  beauteous  order. 
O !  what  a  charm  there  is  in  order,  with  its  lightsomeness  and 
charming,  from  the  airy  spell  of  Sophia's  harp,  down — to  my  pots 
and  kettles. 

*'  But  now,  with  all  my  thoughts  untold,  I  must  end  my  letter 
for  the  present. 

"  I  dream  often  of  you,  Sophia,  dream  but  half  as  often  of  thy 
Jessica,  and  she  will  be  happy. 


"  No,  I  will  not  be  incoherent  for  all  that.  Are  you  not  afraid 
of  spoiling  me,  Sophia.  But  yours  shall  be  the  penalty,  for  since 
you  ask  it,  you  shall  have  it  in  abundance. 

"  I  used  to  write  on  the  table  below,  but  I  do  not  like  to  write 
before  him ;  he  may  ask  to  see  what  I  write,  perhaps,  and  that 
will  place  me  in  a  distressful  case  :  so  I  removed  my  pine  board 
to  my  chamber,  and  neatly  fitted  it  to  my  window  case  ;  glad  I 


136 

am  of  the  change.  It  is  so  much  for  the  better,  here  it  is  light- 
some, and  my  window  overlooks  so  pleasant  a  green ;  and  here 
there  is  such  quiet,  such  security ;  for  I  bolt  the  door.  In  going 
to  and  from  his  chamber  he  comes  so  near  as  to  brush  against  my 
door,  and  methinks  I  would  not  be  seen  by  him,  or  be  thought 
bv  him  to  be  within,  when  he  passes  to  and  fro.  I  am  little  in 
danger  of  detection,  I  believe,  for  this  is  the  third  day  of  his 
residence  with  us,  and  yet  he  has  not  spent  an  hour  at  home, 
but  at  night  and  at  meals.  'Tis  true,  the  weather  has  been  fine. 
The  case  may  vary  when  it  turns  to  rainy,  bleak  and  cold.  We 
shall  see ;  but  I  have  not  told  you  what  happened  at  our  first 
meeting  have  I  ?  No.     Well  then  take  it  now. 

"  He  talked  much  to  my  brother ;  yet  is  not  talkative :  yielded 
to  the  impulse  of  my  brother's  questions  :  talked  I  thought  not 
from  inclination,  but  complacency,  as  if  he  would  have  been,  not 
more  perhaps,  but  equally  satisfied  with  being  silent. 

"  Harry,  you  know,  loves  to  converse  in  his  way.  A  great 
dealer  is  he  in  moral  distinctions,  deeply  read  in  historj^,  and  an 
endless  speculator  upon  government.  Methinks,  Golden  is  like 
him  in  these  respects,  he  listened  with  so  intelligent  an  attention, 
and  what  he  said,  when  my  brother  called  upon  him  for  his 
opinion  and  waited  his  replies,  was  so  accurate,  so  just. 

"  Do  not  smile  at  me,  Sophia,  I  know  what  you  would  say. 
Well  do  I  know  my  own  ignorance ;  the  fallacy  of  all  my  de- 
cisions, but  I  give  you  my  thoughts  as  they  come,  not  as  true, 
but  simply  as  mine. 

"  I  told  you  that  I  loved  to  be  a  listener  of  rational  conversa- 
tion. Here,  you  may  well  suppose,  I  listened  eagerly ;  all  was 
so  new.  Harry,  though  my  brother,  I  had  scarcely  ever  before 
heard  in  this  kind  of  discourse,  and  Colden's  looks,  tones,  senti- 
ments, were  so  little  like  the  few  whom  I  had  heard  talk ! 

"  Well  it  was  that  he  did  not  sometimes  glance  at  me.  As 
bold  he  would  have  thought  me  now,  with  my  staring  eyes,  as 
at  first,  he  might  have  thought  me  timorous. 

"  My  brother,  at  length,  it  being  late,  rose  to  go.  Now  did 
my  tremblings  and  embarrassments  return.  To  be  thus  left  alone 
with  him,  and  obliged  to  say  something !  and  to  end  the  conver- 
sation so  soon  ! 


137 

"  My  brother  retired,  and  a  pause,  very  painful  to  me  follow- 
ed, but  he  ended  it  by  saying,  shall  I  take  this  lighi  ?  I  will  go 
if  you  please  to  my  chamber.  Yes,  yes,  stammered  I,  and 
Hannah  appearing  just  then,  I  directed  her  to  show  him  the  way 
to  his  apartment.  I  had  scarcely  voice  enough  to  return  his— 
*'  good  night." 

"•  Commonly,  I  no  sooner  lay  my  head  upon  the  pillow,  than 
I  am  in  deep  sleep.  It  was  not  so  to-night.  Such  a  throng  of 
images,  such  misgivings,  may  I  call  them,  at  my  heart — But 
my  language,  Sophia,  is  very  poor,  for  half  my  feelings : 
I  want  words.  Shame  upon  me  for  profiting  so  little  by  your 
conversation  and  your  letters!  All  I  have,  indeed,  I  owe  to 
you,  but  that  all  is  too,  too  little. 

"  Often  have  I  wanted  suitable  expressions,  but  never  more 
than  now,  I  think,  for  I  never  felt  thus  before.  My  situation 
now  had  no  parallel  in  my  past  life. 

"  How  silly  are  these  feminine  timidities  !  Often  have  I  heard 
them  described  as  attendant  upon  solitude,  darkness.  'Till  now 
I  never  understood  the  describer ;  ''till  7iorv,  I  say,  for  surely 
these  sensations  answer  to  the  picture  so  often  drawn  of  panick ; 
restlessness  ;  dread  of  we  know  not  what ;  phantastic  misinter- 
pretings  of  noises  and  shadows. 

"  But  the  object  of  my  dread  was  not  solitude  or  darkness  : 
these  were  ever  friendly  to  my  peace.  To  be  ahne  have  I  often 
thought,  on  entering  my  little  chamber,  what  comforts,  what  se- 
renities does  it  bestow  :  except  when  my  Sophia  has  been  thought 
of,  then  has  even  solitude,  with  all  its  safety  and  its  stillness 
been  irksome.  Much  as  I  love  to  be  alone,  Sophia,  I  would 
always  exchange  my  solitary  pleasures  for  the  blessings  of  thy 
company.  My  pillow  has  its  charms ;  sweetly  do  I  rest  my 
cheek  upon  it,  but  far  more  sweetly  would  I  lay  mine  upon  thy 
cheek. 

"  You  honoured  me  once  you  know,  with  your  company  for 
one  night.  How  delighted  was  I,  yet  how  ashamed  to  intro- 
duce you  to  my  humble  cot.  Shall  I  ever  forget  that  night !  we 
talked  till  past  three  ;  and  such  unbosoming  of  all  your  feelings, 
all  your  pleasures  and  cares,  and  what  you  called  your  foibles ; 
spots  in  the  sunny  brightness  of  your  character.  Ever  since  that 
night  have  I  been  a  new  creature  ;  to  be  locked  in  your  arms } 

1^ 


138 

to  share  your  pillow  with  you,  gave  new  force,  new  existence  to 
the  love  which  before  united  us :  often  shall  we  pass  such  nights 
when  thou  and  I  are  safe  together  at  Wortlyfield. 

"  But  how  do  these  remembrances  seduce  me  from  the  present 


scene 


"  Why  these  panicks,  my  friend  ?  Was  I  not  still  alone  and 
safe  ?  Certainly.  What  could  1  fear  ?  But  this  man  under  the 
same  roof;  in  the  room  adjoining:  his  footsteps  and  the  very 
movements  of  the  furniture  overheard,  or  capable  of  being  so ; 
for  this  night  I  heard  nothing  ;  all  was  still  long  before  I  came 
up.     I  took  care  of  that. 

"  I  rebuked  myself  for  these  terrors,  but  they  staid  throughout 
the  night,  in  spite  of  my — "  Begone."  Sometimes  they  with- 
drew or  momently  subsided,  when  the  late  conversation  recurred. 
I  took  a  new  view  of  his  features,  and  ran  over  all  that  he  had 
said.  The  talk  was  cursory  and  miscellaneous  ;  how  did  every 
word  call  up  feelings  of  courage  or  despondency  in  my  heart ; 
chiefly  of  the  latter,  for  they  more  often  talked  of  things  of  which  I 
was  wholly  ignorant,  than  on  subjects  I  knew  aught  about. 

"  How  very  gross  is  my  ignorance,  how  limited,  how  ideot- 
like  my  faculties  !  Have  I  common  sense,  I  wonder !  Never  saw 
I  so  clearly ;  never  despised  I  so  much  mv  own  ignorance,  as 
on  this  night.  Never  did  my  soul  droop  so  much  under  this 
load  of  self  contempt. 

"  How  have  you  contrived,  Sophia,  to  hide  my  ignorance  from 
me  so  long  ?  But  1  never  saw  you  in  company  with  others ; 
and  your  friendly  pity  was  no  doubt,  careful  to  adopt  your  style 
and  your  topics  to  my  childish  capacities  ;  yet  you  love  me,  you 
write  ;  you  talk  to  me  without  i-eserve  ;  in  spite  of  my  de- 
ficiencies, you  treat  me  with  respect  and  tenderness.  How  does 
it  happen  ? 

"  You  come  to  be  delighted  too  with  our  subjects  of  discourse. 
You  freely  discuss  them  ;  and  at  eveiy  moment  I  see  your  supe- 
riority to  me ;  you  instruct  me  without  distressing  or  perma- 
nently humbling  me.  Your  regard  for  me  raises  me  as  high  as 
your  proofs  of  excellence  have  otherwise  a  tendency  to  sink  me. 
The  higher  you  are  above  me,  your  esteem  exalts  me  the  more, 
for  it  places  me  in  some  sort,  on  a  level  with  yourself. 


139 

"  But  we  talk  together  in  a  different  manner  from  Colden  and 
my  brother.  We  talk  of  what  each  has  seen  and  felt.  The 
comments,  the  reflections  you  make,  the  specimens  of  wit,  ad- 
dress, and  force  of  mind  are  what  distinguishes  you  so  much  in 
my  eyes.  We  neither  of  us  go  out  of  our  own  sphere  ;  not  to 
know  what  you  know,  may  not  always  be  to  my  discredit,  since 
I  cannot  be  in  your  house,  and  surrounded  by  your  company, 
while  I  am  mewed  up  in  my  own  cottage.  Daily  incidents, 
and  dialogues,  display  of  character  you  meet  with,  are  your 
subjects  J  and  these,  from  your  way  of  life,  so  different  from 
mine,  must  be  far  more  numerous,  various  and  important, 
and  the  improvement  you  thence  derive,  and  the  reflections  that 
are  thence  suggested,  must  unspeakably  excel  mine. 

"  But  Colden  and  Harry  talk  not  thus.  They  speak  of  per- 
sons and  things  which  they  could  not  see  with  their  own  eyes  ; 
thousands  of  miles  off,  or  living  ages  ago  ;  events  they  talked 
about,  not  affecting  the  happiness  or  fortunes  of  one  or  a  few 
insignifieants,  and  not  limited  to  a  year  or  two  or  life  or  two, 
but  governing  the  fate  of  nations  and  worlds,  for  centuries  of 
years.  And  all  the  time  how  shrunk  am  I  into  my  little  despi- 
cable shell ! 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  the  Regent  Orleans  and  his  parliaments : 
the  causes  of  the  lute  war :  the  siege  of  Havanna  and  Prague, 
and  the  good  or  bad  conditions  of  peace  that  were  offered  and 
received.  I  don't  know  what  kind  of  rule  it  is  that  the  English 
at  home,  exercise  over  the  English  in  America.  I  don't  know 
how  far  it  is,  and  what  it  is,  (I  suppose  it  to  be  sea),  that 
divides  one  from  the  other.  How  should  so  unread  a  simpleton 
as  I  know  these  things  ? 

"  And  what  is  worse,  I  never  shall  know  them.  To  know 
any  thing,  I  fancy  we  must  begin  soon,  we  may  dare  to  look 
forward  after  twenty-two,  nay  after  four  score  and  two;  but 
Avhat  can  she  expect,  who  has  not  begun  till  after  twenty- two  ? 

''  I  can  no  more  at  present. 


"  He  rose  by  day  dawn.  I  rose  soon  after  him.  I  am  seldom 
such  an  early  riser,  but  I  could  not  sleep  ;  so  I  sat  down  at  m\ 
window  till  m\'  mother  called. 


140 

"•  His  breakfast  was  set  in  due  season.  Nothing  said  but  a 
cold  "  Good  morrow/'  as  he  entered  seeing  the  arrangement  oi 
my  table,  and  I  seating  myself  at  it,  he  also  sat  down. 

"  The  bread  broken  and  the  cup  lifted  not  like  one  that  was 
hungr\',  nor,  as  I  at  first  feared,  like  one  that  disrelished  his 
meal,  but  simply  as  if  thought  was  too  busy  to  allow  much  at- 
tention to  the  cravings  of  nature.  His  eye  fixed  upon  a  knot  in 
the  table,  or  glancing  through  the  window  with  all  the  unsteadi- 
ness of  inattention.  So  deep  in  thought  was  he  that  I  ventured 
to  observe  him  closely. 

"  Thy  pencil,  my  friend,  might  show  this  face  as  it  ought  to 
be  shown.  My  words  cannot.  I  am  sorry  to  see  it  as  I  see  it, 
as  I  see  it  in  his  absence  would  answer  the  painter's  end.  Yet  by 
candle  light,  it  looked,  I  know  not  why,  with  softer  lineaments 
than  at  the  breakfast  table.  The  spar  he  said  was  beautiful ;  he 
had  never  seen  a  specimen  so  highly  polished ;  pleasure  sparkled 
on  his  features,  and  they  somewhat  gleamed  with  the  social 
spirit,  his  heart  appearing  to  be  opened  by  the  previous  conver- 
sation with  Harry. 

"  Now  there  was  an  air  widely  different ;  not  boisterous  nor 
sullen,  nor  vet  austere.  Far  from  any  of  these  was  it,  yet  I 
cannot  tell  what  it  was.  But  surely  it  denoted  not  a  mind  at 
ease  ;  the  soul  within  y.as  not  at  peace  with  fortune.  Once  or 
twice,  looking  through  the  window,  but  in  such  a  way  as  showed 
him  wholly  unobservant  of  the  objixts  before  him :  I  saw  his 
brows  folded  and  his  eyes  glistened :  then  he  would  recover  his 
attention  to  things  around  him,  and  lift  the  cup  to  his  lips,  that 
for  some  minutes  before  had  been  idle  in  his  hand. 

"  What,  at  that  moment,  Sophia,  v.as  he  thinking  of r  Me- 
thinks  I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  know.  It  was  a  sorro\vfuI 
strain.  His  fortune  must  be  singular  and  mournful,  to  make' 
him  choose  this  way  of  life.  To  have  no  company,  no  business 
of  any  kind,  to  shun  discourse  as  he  was  said  to  do,  at  Philip- 
son's,  with  all  mankind,  not  to  talk  to  an)  of  the  family  though 
good  people :  me,  he  might  naturally  overlook  and  think  not 
worth  a  word,  but  all  others  he  equally  kept  at  a  distance. 

"  Here  he  is,  an  exile  from  some  foreign  country  ;  not  accom- 
panied bv  any  of  his  kindred  or  friends :  he   must  have  some 


141 

relations ;  young  as  he,  his  parents,  it  is  likely  are  still  alive. 
He  must  have  sisters,  perhaps,  Sophia,  he  has  a  wife. 

"  What  would  1  give  to  know  his  true  situation  ?  He  is  not 
married,  one  would  think,  for  would  he  not  be  accompanied  by 
his  wife  ?  Could  any  calamity  induce  her  to  desert  him  ?  I  am 
extremely  anxious  to  discover  the  truth  ;  but  how  ?  he  will  not 
tell  it  me  himself. 

"  He  quickly  dispatched  his  breakfast,  and  spent  the  morning 
in  his  chamber.  1  suppose,  because  it  rained.  I  was  busy  as 
usual  at  mv  needle.  I  wanted  to  sit  in  mv  chamber,  but  I  was 
unwilling  to  go  up  while  he  was  in  his  room.  It  was  a  ioolish 
reluctance  to  be  sure,  but  1  could  not  drive  it  away. 

"  I  was  thinking  all  the  time  of  this  man.  How  different  are 
my  thoughts  now  from  what  they  used  to  be  before  he  came  i 
Then  1  was  in  a  settled  calm,  vacant  of  all  emotion,  and  ponder- 
ing chiefly  on  past  events,  but  the  present  seems  now  to  fill  up 
my  whole  soul. 

"  After  dinner,  the  weather  clearing  up,  he  went  out  and 
returned  to  tea,  after  which  he  went  out  again.  The  two  last 
meals  passed  like  the  first,  without  a  syllable  uttered  by  either, 
and  the  next  day  was  but  the  counterpart  of  the  day  before. 

''  Whither  does  he  go  ?  out  of  town,  Philipson  says  ;  but  for 
what  end  r  Merely  for  the  sake  of  exercise  and  meditation. 
That  must  be  the  end,  to  be  sure,  for  what  else  can  it  be  ! 

"  My  brother  came  last  evening  to  see  him,  but  Golden  being 
abroad,  sat  an  hour  with  me.  He  inquired  how  I  liked  mv 
guest  ? 

"  I  told  him  all  that  I  had  observed  and  thought  about  hin; . 
and  asked  him,  in  my  turn,  what  was  his  opinion. 

"  He  is  certainly,  said  he,  a  remarkable  man.  He  has  educa- 
tion and  refinement.  His  knowledge  is  extensive  and  of  the 
most  valuable  kind.  He  is  a  proficient  in  several  languages  and 
sciences,  and  talks  of  the  affairs  of  the  world,  like  one  that  had 
not  acquired  the  knowledge  at  a  distance  or  at  second  hand. 
Yet  there  is  a  perplexing  mystery  about  him ;  nobody  in  this 
part  of  the  world  knows  him.  His  aversion  to  society  mav  be 
his  habitual  humour.  It  may  proceed  from  a  deeply  rooted 
melancholy,  occasioned  by  some  recent  and  great  disasters,  or 
it  may  arise  from  conscious  guilt,  from  terror  of  detection. 


142 

*■'  Good  Heaven!  brother,  what  do  you  mean  by  that!  From 
guilt ! 

"  That  is  one  conjecture  ;  not,  in  itself,  probable  I  own,  but 
perhaps,  not  less  so  than  others. 

*'  But  what  guilt  can  you  conceive  ? 

"  None.  It  is  a  bare  conjecture.  I  pretend  not  to  specify 
what  guilt,  or  to  point  out  the  true  cause ;  as  to  what  he  has  been 
it  is  impossible  to  form  any  plausible  guess ;  but  it  is  evident 
that  he  is  learned,  amiable  and  accomplished,  and  I  shall  labour 
to  make  him  more  sociable. 

"  Just  then  our  guest  entered.  I  was  delighted  to  see  the 
friendly  manner  in  which  he  greeted  my  brother.  Another  con- 
versation ensued,  which  ended  with  an  invitation  from  Harry  to 
dinner  the  next  day. 

"  He  appeared  not  to  have  expected  this,  and  was,  I  thought 
a  little  embarrassed :  he  paused.  Harry  then  added,  I  invite 
you  not  as  a  formal  guest,  but  as  a  friend,  and  merely  to  show 
yoU'  the  way  to  an  house,  where  I  hope  you  will  be  a  frequent 
and  familiar  visitant ;  you  will  therefore  find  only  my  own  family, 
and  the  same  frugal  fare  that  is  provided  for  you  here. 

"  This  pleased  him,  and  he  readily  consented  to  go.  To-day 
is  serene  and  bright.  He  went  out  as  usual,  and  not  being  to 
return  at  noon,  will  leave  me  alone,  I  suppose,  till  night. 

"  But  why,  Sophia,  do  I  talk  to  thee  of  nobody  but  this  man  ? 
Why  scarcely  think  I  on  any  other  subject?  'Tis  the  novelty  of 
this  change  I  suppose,  and  so  will  disappear  in  a  few  days  or 
weeks,  and  I  shall  be  well  pleased  when  it  does  so.  My  present 
feelings  are  unpleasant ;  I  feel  I  know  not  what  of  disquiet  and- 
perplexity.  I  am  not,  if  I  may  so  sa}',  at  home  to  myself ;  I 
sometimes  v/ish  that  we  had  never  been  troubled  with  this  guest. 
Things  are  not  so  orderly,  so  private,  so  tranquil,  as  they  used 
to  be  under  this  roof,  when  my  mother,  my  Hannah  and  myself 
were  its  only  tenants ;  but  the  evil,  if  it  be  one,  is  without  re- 
medv,  so  I  must  make  the  best  of  it.     Adieu. 


•'■  I  can  hardly  believe  that  my  poor  prate  can  give  you  plea- 
sure, Sophia,  but  since  you  say  as  much  to  be  sure  it  must  be  so. 


14S 

Thy  praise  is  a  sweet  encourager.  Without  it,  much  as  I  have 
come  to  love  the  pen,  I  should  not  indulge  so  often  my  scrib- 
bling vein. 

"  By  the  way,  is  not  this  sudden  fondness  for  writing,  in  one 
so  awkward  at  the  quill  as  I  am,  a  little  surprising  ?  Nothing 
will  serve  but  once  a  day  at  least,  must  I  seat  myself  here,  and 
scribble.  It  I  miss  doing  so,  it  is  like  omitting  a  customary 
meal. 

"  My  mother  and  household  affairs  employ  most  of  the  day,^ 
but  my  mother  sleeps  an  hour  or  two,  after  dinner,  and  retires 
for  the  night,  at  ten.  At  these  times  I  am  left  to  myself,  and  I 
used  to  spend  them  chiefly  in  the  garden  room,  but  now  I  hie  me 
to  my  own  chamber.  The  pen  lies  so  near  and  so  enticingly,  my 
thoughts  are  so  busily  engaged  with  thee  or  with  this  new-comer; 
and  this  being  the  only  way  to  converse  with  thee,  I  mostly 
yield  to  the  temptation,  and  lay  by  my  work.  What  I  begin  in 
the  afternoon,  I  finish,  if  I  can,  at  night. 

"  But  do  not  think  me  an  idler,  Sophia.  There  are  other 
times  of  the  day,  when  I  am  as  diligent  a  workwoman  as  ever, 
but  I  always  told  you  that  sewing  was  my  entertainment,  and  I 
applied  to  it  so  much,  not  because  it  was  absolutely  necessary, 
but  because  I  had  nothing  else  to  do,  or  nothing  else  that  I  liked 
to  do  ;  now  I  like  writing  better,  and  so  I  write,  yet  should  not 
do  so,  I  suspect,  if  my  Sophia  were  not  thus  kindly  eager  to  read 
what  I  write. 

"  You  tell  me  to  relate  all  that  I  think,  and  all  that  occurs  re- 
specting our  guest.  Nothing  new  has  occurred.  Every  thing  is 
uniform.  The  same  silence  at  meals ;  the  same  wandering 
abroad,  and  the  same  seclusion  in  his  chamber  as  at  first.  'Tis 
very  strange,  Sophia.  I  must  needs  say,  I  do  not  like  it  at  all ;  but 
how  shall  I  help  myself! 

"  I  want  him  to  talk  to  me  a  little  ;  a  word  or  two,  methinks, 
he  might  oblige  me  with,  as  we  sit  opposite  at  table.  If  it  were 
only,  "  Your  bread  is  well  baked,"  "  Your  glass  is  a  clear  glass," 
it  would  be  something  better  than  total  silence,  methinks. 

"  But  if  he  has  lost  his  tongue,  in  my  company,  he  might 
show  some  attention  by  his  looks,  at  least.  But  he  comes  and 
goes,  and  sits  at  dinner,  just  as  if  surrounded  by  unconscious  ta- 
bles and  chairs.    He  looks  across  me  as  it  were,  as  his  eve  roves 


144 
I 

about,  just  as  if  I  were  a  flitting  shadow  on  the  white  wall,  or  d 

two  legged  pine  table  that  could  movt  itself. 

"  This  is  not  polite,  surely.  'Tis  not  kind.  A  kind  temper 
would  not  let  him  act  thus  superciliously.  To  be  wrapt  up  in  his 
own  gloomy  thoughts,  to  treat  a  human  creature,  whom  he  sees 
so  often,  and  a  woman  too,  and  young  too,  and  not  talkative  or 
forward,  I  will  venture  to  say,  as  if  she  were  a  thing  inanimate. 

"  He  deems  me,  without  doubt,  a  simpleton  as  I  am  ;  but  how 
does  he  know  but  that  I  have  some  sensibility  and  some  know- 
ledge ?  This  cannot  be  found  out,  but  on  the  trial.  He  looks 
for  nothing  in  me  congenial  with  his  own  views  and  pursuits  ; 
and  nothing,  indeed,  there  is  ;  but  are  men  to  act  with  no  view 
but  to  receive  pleasure  ?  Ought  they  not,  sometimes,  to  aim  at 
giving  it  ? 

"  I,  a  poor  girl,  ignorant,  forlorn,  might  be  greatly  benefitted 
by  the  conversation  of  such  an  one  as  he.  That  condescension 
would  so  flatter  me  !  I  should  be  made  better  and  wiser  by  his 
talk  ;  and  not  only  that,  but  I  should  be  gratified,  delighted,  by 
such  notice  ;  and  he  himself  siirely  would  be  no  loser.  These 
melancholy  musings  that  afilict  him  now,  would  be  driven  away 
by  more  cheerful  images  :  thus  would  he  secure  himself  as  much 
pleasure  as  he  gives  to  another :  but  he  does  not  perceive  this, 
morose,  incommunicative  creature  that  he  is. 

"  I  am  displeased  with  him,  Sophia.  I  blame  myself  for  con- 
senting to  his  coming.  All  before  was  so  serene,  so  unruffled, 
but  now — 

"  He  has  come  in,  I  see,  and  our  supper  time  is  arrived.  All 
was  ready  for  Hannah  to  bring  in,  and  she  was  to  bring  it  in  as 
soon  as  he  came.  So  I  must  go  down.  Yet  that  is  an  idle  for- 
mality ;  he  can  dispatch  his  meal  as  well  in  my  absence  as  my 
presence  :  nay,  would  be  better  pleased,  I  warrant  you,  that  I 
should  stay  away  :  and  I  7viU  stay.  He  shall  eat  by  himself  this 
time,  and  I  will  write  on  as  if  such — 

"  No.  I  want  not  to  eat  this  evening,  but  see  that  he  is  well 
served.  Hannah  came  up  to  tell  me,  all  was  ready,  but  I  will 
not  go.  I  am,  just  now,  a  little  sullen.  I  believe  I  could  not 
look  on  him  as  kindly  as,  perhaps,  I  ought.  I  will  write  away 
my  spleen  before  I  see  him,  if  possible. 


145 

"  Yet  I  cannot  write.  What  ails  me,  Sophia  ?  My  fingers  are 
unsteady.  My  heart  flutters  and  misgives  me  much.  I  will  take 
to  my  needle,  and  see  if  that  will  pacity  its  tremours. 


"  Ah  !  my  friend  !  I  was  much  to  blame  a  while  ago.  Now, 
do  I  see  my  fault.  Could  I  be  so  peevish  and  absurd  !  What  a 
change,  will  a  few  minutes,  will  a  single  word  make  in  our  feel- 
ings !  Why  see  1  things,  and  judge  of  things  so  differently  at 
different  times  ? 

"  Where's  Jessica  ?"  said  he,  after  a  second  or  third  sip,  and 
looking  at  the  girl,  that  stood  at  the  window. 

"  She's  up  stairs.     She  does  not  want  any  tea  to-night. 

"  She's  well,  I  hope,  anxiously  rejoined  he. 

*•'  O,  yes,  very  well. 

■''  Not  quite  true  girl — my  mind  was  not  well.  A  bad  pas- 
sion possessed  it,  but,  strange,  how  all  vanished,  in  an  instant, 
when  these  questions  of  our  guest  were  told  mir  by  Hannah. 
This  was  all  he  said.  Satisfied,  it  seemed,  by  her  assurance, 
he  relapsed  into  thoughtfulness,  and  having  drained  his  bowl, 
went  up  to  his  chamber.  1  heard  him  coming.  Into  what  new 
flutters  was  I  thrown.  My  door,  carelessly,  had  been  left  open 
and  he  must  pass  it  going  to  his  own,  and  so  could  not  help 
seeing  me.  And  what  if  he  did!  What  timorous  creatures  are 
we,  women,  for  I  suppose  the  rest  of  girls  are  like  myself  in 
this  particular  ;  there  seems  a  kind  of  nature  in  it. 

"  My  apprehensions  were  groundless,  as  it  proved.  What 
apprehensions  ?  I  don't  know.  He  passed  the  door,  not  observ- 
ing me,  and  soon  afterwards  Hannah  came  up,  and  whispering- 
ly  told  me  what  he  had  said. 

"  Now  did  my  cheeks  glow  and  my  heart  flutter  indeed.  How 
did  I  upbraid  myself,  for  my  folly ;  my  arrogance.  I  am  not 
then  a  mere  inanimate,  a  senseless  piece  of  furniture  in  his  eyes. 
He  can  think  of  me,  can  ask  if  /  am  rvell,  and  with  an  anxious 
tone  ask  it !  While  I,  an  obdurate  and  selfish  creature,  was  iac- 
cusing  him  of  treating  me  with  scorn,  and  absented  myself 
through  resentment ;  and  for  what  ? 

"  Because,  my  highness,    forsooth,  had   not    been  noticed  ; 

19 


146 

had  not  been  courted  to  talk ;  because  my  little  humours  and 
caprices  were  not  watched  and  gratified.  And  who  am  I,  that 
my  existence  or  my  health  should  be  of  value  in  his  eyes,  what 
have  I  done  to  prove  myself  better  than  the  dirt  I  tread  on !  In 
what  am  I  better ! 

"  Compunction  has  a  very  sharp  sting,  my  Sophia.  I  feel  it 
now,  for  the  fii-st  time,  I  believe ;  yet  still  I  feel  it  not  alone. 
There  came  pleasure  along  with  it ;  a  pure  delight,  not  less  new 
to  me,  than  my  remorse  ;  yet  why  was  I  pleased  ? 

"  My  mother  calls.  Methinks  I  would  be  spared  attending, 
on  her  just  now,  for  I  want  to  write  on,  but  thou  art  a  selfish 
desii-e,  and  so  I  banish  thee.  To-morrow  will  be  here  time 
enough. 


*'  Now  that  I  have  communed  with  my  pillow,  let  me  ask 
again,  why  these  few  words  of  our  guest  pleased  me  so  much. 
To  find  him  with  some  humanity  about  him,  is  truly,  no  such 
extraordinary  thing.  Another  proof  of  my  short-sightedness, 
Sophia ;  always  surprised  at  instances  of  kindness  in  another. 
Whence  could  I  get  such  bad  thoughts  of  mankind,  I  wonder  ? 
I  copy  from  my  despicable  self,  no  doubt,  yet  not  in  this  case, 
for  should  I,  in  Colden's  circumstances,  have  behaved  so  mon- 
strously? I  think  not. 

"  A  taciturnity,  an  inattention  to  me  so  uniform !  What  else 
tould  I  infer,  but  that  he  cared  not  for  me  a  straw  ?  that  my 
absence  or  presence,  my  death  or  life,  were  equally  indifferent  I 
But  I  see  now  my  mistake,  I  am  glad  of  it,  yet  why  so  glad  ?  I 
cannot  tell  why,  but  I  am  very  glad  notwithstanding. 

"  Now  I  long  for  breakfast  time  !  I  want,  methinks,  to  atone 
for  my  foolish  misbehaviour  last  night.  No  doubt,  on  seeing 
me  again,  he  will  ask  me  concerning  mv  health,  and  my  absence 
from  the  tea  table.  I  shall  be  puzzled  for  an  answer.  To  be 
talked  to  by  him  ;  to  have  those  eyes  of  his  fixed  upon  me,  such 
eyes,  Sophia!  They  often  made  me  think  of  yours,  yet  how  un- 
like are  they  to  my  Sophia's!  Thine  so  intelligently  sweet: 
Such  a  blue  serene  !  But  his ! — But  here  again  my  friend,  I  want 
thy  words.     Fain  would  I  describe  them  if  I  could. 


147 

"*  But  if  he  should  look  at  me,  and  ask  me,  what  shall  I  saj'^? 
How  shall  I  loolc  ?  Now  again  these  flutters,  these  burning  cheeks! 
Surely  he  will  think  me  quite  a  fool,  for  I  shall  want  articula- 
tion. Confidence  to  look  up  will  be  denied  me.  Then  will  my 
perverse  fingers  fall  to  twining  with  each  other,  to  drumming 
the  window  ledge,  to  pulling  out  threads  from  my  handkerchief. 
Did  I  ever  think  that  I  should  prove  such  a  simpleton  ? 

"  Yet  I  must  say  something — but  I  hope  he  may  not  speak  to 
me.  My  appearance  alone  will  answer  his  inquiries.  Yet  what 
is  the  atonement  which  I  thought  of,  if  he  speak  not  ?  What 
can  I  do,  but  sit  in  stupid  silence  at  the  same  table,  looking  at 
him  and  from  him,  just  as  his  looks  give  me  leave  !  What  a 
despicable  trifling  exhibition.  In  another  I  might  laugh  at  it, 
but  that  I  should  be  the  actor  makes  me  weep. 

"  How  as  I  come  to  knov/  myself  better,  do  I  more  and  more 
despise  myself?  What  will  at  last  become  of  me,  if  i  go  on 
making  new  discourses  of  my  imbecility  at  every  change  of  situa- 
tion ?  Such  a  wavering,  timorous  creature  !  Something  must  be 
wrong  within  me.  If  I  saw  clearl}^  what  is  right  to  be  done, 
should  I  feel  all  these  hesitations  and  reluctances  in  doing  it  ? 

"  What  is  there  in  this  man  to  make  me  fear  him  ?  Why  faul- 
ter  and  shudder  in  his  presence,  more  than  in  another's  ?  Why 
shrink  and  be  abashed  because  he  speaks  to  me,  and  yet  be  dis- 
contented and  resentful  when  he  forbears  to  speak  ;  to  wish  his 
notice,  when  I  think  he  will  not  give  it,  and  tremblingly  to  shun 
it,  when  he  off"ers  it  ?   I  could  beat  myself  for  this  folly. 

"  But  he  has  come,  and  breakfast  waits.  Shall  I  go  down  ? 
Half  a  mind  not  to  go  :  shall  feel  so  awkwardly  :  yet  not  to  go ! 
How  will  that  look  ?  What  excuse — a  future  meeting  still  more 
difficult.     Fie  upon  me  !     "  Yes,  girl,  I  come." 


*'  I  needed  not  be  so  apprehensive,  not  I.  Speak  to  me,  in- 
deed 1  The  same  as  if  an  empty  chair  stood  there.  Not  a  syllable 
besides  a  faint,  half  articulate,  fashioned-of-itself  "  Good  Mor- 
row." All  in  a  hurry  I,  eating  very  fast,  pouring  out  small 
portions  of  my  tea  at  a  time,  and  cluttering  cup  with  saucer  as 


148 

1    poured,  and  sipping  nicely^  all  to  show  no  leisure  to  hear 
'    r"a,  to  d(  ter  him  from  speaking  to  me. 

"  Yet  all  these  impediments  were  needless :  mute  as  a  stone, 
no  sign  of  the  slightest  inclination  to  open  his  lips ;  eye  always 
gazing  vacantly  through  the  window,  or  cast  up  ceiling-ward. 
He  finished  sooner  than  I ,  and  left  me  at  the  table — Here  did 
my  resentments  swell  my  heart ;  the  tears  would  not  be  kept 
down! 

*••  Such  was  he  at  dinner  too,  but  there  I  felt  not  disappoint- 
ment. I  was  prepared  for  his  neglect.  How  mom-nful  has 
been  this  day !  all  luminous  abroad  !  quiet  the  air,  serene  the 
sky,  and  its  azure  checkered  by  a  thousand  silvery  effulgencies ! 
but  none  of  these  things  affected  me  as  once  they  did. 

"  The  livelong  day  uneasily  sat  I  at  my  work.  My  mother's 
afternoon  repose  allowed  me  to  retire  hither  and  I  did  so,  but 
not  as  yesterday,  to  my  pen.  I  could  not  write.  Indignant, 
sorrowful,  mortified,  perplexed,  was  ever  creature  so  absurdly 
inconsistent  as  thy  Jessy? 

"  I  am  not  happy,  yet  why  not  ?  What  has  happened  to  make 
me  different  from  the  being  that  I  was  a  month  ago.  1  am  dif- 
ferent ;  quite  an  altered  creature,  Sophia,  an  unhappy  alteration 
too. 

.-"  I  can  do  nothing;  I  have  not  patience  to  write.  The 
deepest  humiliation  has  seized  my  heart,  and  the  pain  it  gives 
me  is  more  than  I  can  bear.     I  must  take  myself  to  task. 

"  I  will  walk  I  believe  ;  'tis  long  since  I  visited  the  river's 
pebbly  shore,  and  the  twilight  now  is  gratefully  cool,  serenely 
solemn.  'Tis  a  long  time  since  I  rambled  there.  All  my  habits 
have  been  changed  of  late.  I  will  try  to  muse  away  my  wander- 
ing hours  as  I  used  to  do.  To  feign  myself  beside  my  Marianne 
and  Sally  in  their  evening  stroll. 

My  heart  has  grown  unfaithful  to  their  memory.  I  have  not 
thought  of  them  once  these  three  days.  So  sweet  a  calm  as 
their  gentle  apparitions,  flitting  about  me,  used  to  breathe  over 
my  soul !  Will  it  never  be  so  again  !  I  hope  it  will.  I  will  try 
for  it  at  least. 


149 


"  How  could  you  alarm  me  so !  I  am  half  displeased  with  you ; 
I  think,  my  tumults  are  scarcely  hushed  yet,  though  an  hour 
since  I  read  your  letter.  In  love  Sophia !  What  an  hateful,  what 
a  frightful  intimacy  is  that !  for  at  first  I  was  startled,  terrified, 
and  whence  my  terror  ?  Surely  my  heart  pleaded  not  guilty  to 
the  charge.  But  made  thus  abruptly,  thus  earnestly,  and  by  one 
whom  I  so  much  revered !  could  I  help  a  sudden  dizziness ; 
confusion  of  thoughts  j  just,  I  fancy,  as  if  wakening  on  the 
brink  of  a  precipice. 

"  I  verily  believe  that  I  shrieked ;  startle  and  tremble  1  cer- 
tainly did,  and  dropping  the  letter,  buried  my  face  in  my  pillow, 
for  I  had  not  left  my  room  when  Hannah  brought  it  me.  Had 
thy  father  written  it,  to  tell  me  that  his  darling  child,  had  ven- 
tured too  far  into  the  whirlpool,  in  her  evening  bath,  and  was 
swallowed  up  forever — Somewhat  so  do  I  feel  now. 

*'  O  my  friend,  add  not  to  my  unhappiness  by  thy  scorn ; 
despise  me  thou  must,  for  am  I  not  worthy  to  be  so,  but  not 
with  this  contempt.  Not  so  very  silly  yet,  assure  thyself  my 
friend,  so  very  wicked.  In  my  mind  'twould  be  wickedness  to 
love ;  yet  that  would  be  a  term  too  good  for  me.  To  love^ 
Sophia !  not  indiscreet,  or  rash  or  wicked,  should  I  be  in  such 
a  case,  but  lunatic^  my  Sophia.  The  very  imputation  almost 
makes  me  so. 

"  Surely  you  forget  that  Colden  has  not  been  here  ten  days  ; 
turn  over  again  my  late  letters  ;  mark  their  dates  j  no  less  for- 
getful too  of  their  contents.  What  could  I  have  written  to  sug- 
gest so  wild  a  thought  ?  Why,  Sophia,  he  has  scarcely  spoken 
ten  words  to  me,  and  these  the  cold  formalities  of  "  good  mor- 
row'' and  "  good  night."  I  have  seen  him,  putting  all  the 
minutes  of  our  silent  intercourse  together,  scarcely  two  hours, 
and  yet  thou  tell'st  me,  Vm  in  love  ! 

"  Grant  me  patience,  good  Heaven,  or  give  me  back  the 
esteem  of  my  friend !  Yet  how  am  I  perplexed !  to  write  so 
coolly  as  you  do,  and  call  me  by  the  tenderest  names !  Yet  charge 
mewith  what  would  place  my  judgement  below  infancy. 

"  I  wish  I  had  my  late  letters  to  you  before  me.  I  would 
examine  them  again,  and  see  what  has  inspired  my  friend  with 
this  thought.     Yet,  I  think  I  have  every  tittle  of  them  in  me- 


150 

mory ;  an^l  have  conned  carefully  over  all  their  contents ;  and- 
noth'.  io  I  recollect  to  have  said,  that  could  justify  you  in 
belif  .ng — 

"  But  whv  dwell  I  on  so  hateful  a  them  ?  Why  countenance 
I  thus,  by  reasoning  on  the  matter,  so  childish  a  chimera?  In- 
deed Sophia,  if  thy  suspicion  were  true,  I  should  hate  or 
despise  myself — I  Jon't  know  which  I  should  most  deserve, 
certainly  both  in  the  highest  degree. 

For  only  think,  Sophia,  on  the  difference  between  us  ;  the 
distance  that  severs  this  man  from  me ;  no  eye  can  measure  it, 
'tis  so  wide,  where  could  any  body  look  for  a  contrast  to  his  air, 
his  visage,  his  stature,  his  mean,  so  lofty,  grave,  dignified, 
intelligent,  but  in  thee  poor  Jessy  ! 

"  As  to  his  mind,  little  as  I  know  of  that,  it  is  clear  that  we 
are  just  as  opposite  in  that  respect  as  in  the  other. 

"  Besides,  I  know  him  not.  Is  not  his  past  life  a  blank  to 
me  ;  an  utter  void  !  His  mind  is  full  of  something,  but  what  that 
something  is,  I  am  quite  as  ignorant  as  I  am  of  what  is  passing  in 
the  moon. 

"  Nay  what  proof  have  I  that  he  is  not  married!  And  to 
love,  Sophia,  while  that  is  an  undecided  question  !  think  not,  I 
beseech  you,  so  meanly  of  me. 

"  There  goes  somebody  :  a  man,  I  guess  so  bj-  the  hat.  The 
fence  hides  all  the  rest  of  him,  or  her;  for  possibly  it  is  a  wo- 
man. The  hat  you  know,  is  sometimes  worn  by  the  lower  class 
of  our  sex.  I  have  seen  it  myself,  drawing  at  the  cistern  or 
chopping  up  a  log. 

"  But  it  may  be  a  man,  and  therefore  I  will  love  him.  Love 
whom  ?  He  that  is  creeping  along  the  outside  of  the  fence  there  ; 
a  man,  I  will  suppose  it  to  be,  on  the  evidence  of  the  hat. 

"  But  what  know  you  of  the  wearer;  is  he  old  or  young,  mar- 
ried or  single,  foolish  or  wise,  good  or  bad,  white  or  black? 

"  No  matter.  Whoever  he  be.  I  am  all  enamoured  of  him. 
I  shall  die,  if  he  returns  not  my  passion. 

"  How  now,  mad  cap  ?  What's  come  to  thee  ?  Hast  thou  lost 
thy  wits  ?  Hold  thy  tongue  child,  keep  thy  foolish  thoughts  at 
home,  and  mind  thy  work ! 

"  And  now,  Sophia,  tell  me  if  you  can,  the  difference  between 
such  a  girl,  and  that  girl  who,  in  my  situation  should  fall  in  love 


151 

with  our  guest.  There  is  a  difference  indeed,  but  all  to  my  dis- 
advantage. I  know  more  of  Colden  than  of  him  there  (he  has 
just  now  raised  himself  above  the  fence-top,  and  proves  to  be  a 
woman :  a  cartman's  wife  that  lives  near)  but  all  that  I  know  are 
only  proofs  of  our  mutual  distance;  the  contrariness  of  our  cha- 
racters and  tastes.  So  that  the  folly  of  my  love  would  even  ex- 
ceed that  of  doating  on  the  hat.  To  love  the  unseen  who  may 
be  what  we  wish,  is  wiser  than  to  love  the  seen^  whose  visibles 
are  only  unfitness,  and  which,  if  even  they  were  not  unfitnesses, 
are  still  so  small  a  part  of  the  being,  and  a  part  so  unimportant, 
that  he  might  as  well  be  not  seen  at  all. 

"  I  am  no  adept  in  these  things,  Sophia,  I  pretend  not  to  be 
so.  True,  no  doubt,  as  you  say,  we  are  not  always  aware  of  the 
tendency  of  our  own  feelings,  but  here  there  surely  can  be  no 
room  to  doubt.  For  need  I  repeat,  but  I  am  ashamed  to  repeat 
things  so  evident !  It  was  foolish  to  dwell  upon  a  notion  so 
phantastic  so  long.     So  here,  Sophia,  I  stop. 


"  I  have  just  parted  from  Harry,  and  in  a  very  peevish  mood. 
I  am  harassed ;  I  am  eaten  up,  I  think  by  my  vexation.  A 
thousand  times  have  I  wept,  the  very  fall  of  inanimate  nature  has 
often  called  up  tears  ;  but  what  different  feelings  occupied  those 
tears,  from  the  tears  that  are  now  blotting  my  paper ! 

"  How  harsh  is  the  voice  of  blame  from  those  we  love !  I 
deserve  not  thy  censure  Harry,  and  that  comforts  me  but  little  ! 
Yet  my  brother  meant  no  ill ;  his  concern  for  my  happiness  only 
dictated  what  he  said.  As  his  own  life  does  he  love  his  sister, 
and  hence  is  he  anxious  for  my  welfare.  Benevolent  and  tender 
was  he  in  his  councils  and  his  cautions.  His  intention  was  kind, 
of  a  piece  with  his  treatment  of  me  from  childhood  up  to  this 
hour,  and  let  me  only  think  of  his  intention  and  be  grateful  for 
that. 

"  Yet  to  be  thought  to  need  such  cautions ;  not  from  my  bro- 
ther only  but  my  friend !  No,  my  heart  never  knew  pain  till 
now.  Till  now  all  has  not  been  joyous  with  me ;  full  of  glee, 
lightly  did  my  spirits  dance,  some  ten  years  ago  ;  but  since  my 
childish  days  have  disappeared,  I  have  shaken  hands  with  gaiety, 


152 

yet  more  I  may  say,  was  I  unhappy.  To  be  mihappy  was  to  be 
thus,  and  never  before  was  I  thus.  Something  must  be  wrong 
in  my  behaviour,  since  on  that  are  founded  such  suspicions.  I 
must  scrutinize  mine  closely.  Methinks  I  would  be  wrong,  for 
then  my  friend  and  my  brother  would  be  justified. 

"  But  why  have  such  a  basis  for  his  cautions  ?  Why  is  my 
brother  thus  prone  to  construe  into  evil,  into  guilt,  the  mystery 
so  studied  by  our  guest  ?  And  from  any  reluctance  to  admit  his 
suspicions ;  my  solicitude  to  vindicate  his  friend,  why  so  per- 
versely infer  that  I  am  in  danger  of  loving  him. 

"  Cannot  I  revere  talents ;  cannot  I  pity  the  unfortunate, 
without  these  selfish  views  ?  Cannot  I  be  just  without  incurring 
such  humiliating  charges  ? 

"  Thou  art  wrong  Jessy  (cried  my  brother)  I  reproach  you 
not  for  what  is  done.  I  only  caution  you  against  the  possible, 
the  future.  My  caution  may  be  useless.  The  strength  of  your 
mind  may  serv^e  you  against  the  evil,  though  no  caution  were 
given.  So  much  the  better.  The  caution  has  done  no  good, 
'tis  true,  but  then,  my  sister,  it  has  done  no  harm.  Why  then 
be  displeased  ?  Knowing  too  that  I  mean  you  only  good.  Let 
me  tell  you,  Jessy,  the  manner  in  which  you  have  received  my 
caution  is — a  little  unaccountable.  A  severe  judge  might  think 
the  caution  more  needful,  in  proportion  as  it  was  heard  with  im- 
patience. But  I  judge  not  severely,  I  judge  as  the  kindest  and 
fondest  heart  can  judge. 

"  Much  as  I  esteem  you,  Jessy,  I  do  not  believe  you  a  witch, 
an  oracle,  guided  in  all  you  do  by  inspiration ;  in  all  you  say 
by  prophecy.  After  all,  you  are  only  a  woman.  A  young  one 
too.  Ignorant  of  most  things,  and  most  of  all,  of  the  world. 
You  are  no  match  for  the  cunning  of  mankind,  for  the  tricks  of 
your  own  heart ;  an  easy  dupe  would  you  prove,  I  am  afraid,  to 
both.  How  should  it  be  otherwise  ?  Where  should  you  get 
your  knowledge  ?  Fi-om  books  !  poor  preceptors  these  of  world- 
ly knowledge  ?  But  poor  as  they  are,  they  have  taught  you 
nothing.     They  are  not  of  your  acquaintance. 

"  From  observation  !  You,  shut  up  in  your  cottage,  holding 
no  converse,  but  with  your  Hannah  and  your  Fuss,  what  ha^  e 
vou  observed  ? 


153 

•>'  There  again  you  wrong  me  Jessy.  I  am  not  Colden's 
enemy.  I  am  only  my  sister's  friend.  As  to  what  may  be 
concealed  under  this  mystery,  I  have  mentione  i  possibilities  only. 
They  do  not  influence  my  conduct,  }ou  sav.  Wn\ ,  to  be  sure 
I  am  not  a  girl  as  thou  art,  Jessy.  I  see  clearly  my  way  ;  there 
is  no  danger  of  my  reposing  undue  confidence  ;  my  property, 
my  liberty,  my  life,  I  shall  never  need  to  put  into  his  keeping. 
I  cznnot  fall  in  love  with  him.  Should  he  go  to  the  world's  end  j 
should  he  give  his  affections  as  a  lover  and  a  husband  to  a  Che- 
rokee squaw,  my  peace  will  be  unaffected. 

"  But  my  peace,  brother,  you  think  will  not  be  unaffected! 

"  Pervert  not  my  meaning  Jessy,  I  have  spoken  plainly  enough. 

"  O  my  dear  brother,  what  has  come  to  me  to  merit  all  this 
chiding  ? 

"  This  chiding'^  as  you  call  it,  is  a  creature  of  your  own  fancy. 
Did  you  love,  with  all  your  soul  this  man,  I  should  not  chide 
you ;  it  would  be  barbarous  to  do  so.  I  have  said  nothing  as 
if  I  supposed  you  loved  him  ;  I  have  merely  argued  on  a  possi- 
bility. That  there  is  danger  is  suggested  more  by  the  knowledge 
of  your  tenderness  and  purity  of  heart,  your  guileless,  frank,  un- 
suspicious temper,  than  from  any  foreign  considerations.  If  I 
overrate  the  danger,  it  is  because  I  overrate  your  good  qualities  j 
because  I  am  too  deeply  concerned  for  your  safety.  If  my  judg- 
ment be  clouded,  it  is  clouded  by  affection.  If  I  raise  needless 
fences  and  plant  a  needless  watch  round  your  happiness,  why  is 
it  but  because  that  happiness  is  so  dear  to  me  ? 

"  You  are  no  common  girl.  Though  no  prodigy,  yet  I  know  no 
woman  of  your  age  who  thinks  and  acts  in  the  same  manner. 
My  confidence  in  jou  is  greater  than  I  would  place  in  another 
older,  more  wary,  more  proficient  in  the  passions  than  you  are. 

"  Had  you  not  been  thus  superior,  had  you  not  possessed  this 
confidence,  should  I,  think  you,  have  placed  a  man  like  this  un- 
der the  same  roof,  have  allowed  him  to  live,  in  some  sensej 
alone  with  you,  for  your  mother  and  your  Hannah  are,  in  this  re- 
spect, as  nobody.  A  man  thus  noble  and  attractive  in  his  per- 
son, rich  in  mental  gifts  :  his  past  life  and  his  genuine  principles 
thus  totally  unknown  ? 

"  Many  persons  have  expressed  their  surprise  that  I  should  have 
done  this  ;  but  the  danger  which  thev  feared,  I  could  not  fear. 

20 


154 

"  Lord  bless  me,  brother,  I  do  not  understand  you  1  Danger  ! 
What  danger  can  you  mean  ?  No  matter  what,  if  you  really  do 
not  take  my  meaning,  since,  as  I  told  you,  I  did  not  and  cannot 
fear  it. 

"  After  a  little  pause,  I  saw  what  he  meant.  How  am  I  fallen 
Sophy  ?  What  a  world  do  we  live  in  !  But  my  brother  feared  not 
for  me,  yet  for  those  who  knew  me  to  hold  it  for  an  instant  in 
their  mind,  was  so  opprobrious  to  me. 

"  Much  besides  this,  my  brother  said,  all  so  strange,  so  hum- 
bling to  my  honest  pride,  honest  1  may  surely  call  it,  that  I  shall 
hate  to  remember  it. 

•  "  I  asked  him  if  any  thing  in  my  behaviour — I  could  not  say 
more,  but  by  the  indignant  glow  of  my  cheeks.  He  hesitated  to 
reply.  Why  no,  said  he,  at  last,  I  have  seldom  seen  you  toge- 
ther. You  tell  me  that  you  have  had  no  conversation  with  him, 
but  yet — But  I  fear  to  check  your  ingenuous  spirit. 

"  Fear  not  that  brother.  No  consequence  shall  make  me  a  dis- 
sembler to  you.  I  •will  alv/ays  repose  mv  feelings  in  your  ear, 
whatever  inference  \our  judgment  may  draw  from  them.  Tell 
me  what  you  have  observed  in  me  to  occasion  uneasiness. 

"  Perhaps,  I  have  inferred  to  much.  In  youthful  minds,  in  in- 
experienced minds,  in  female  minds,  where  sensibilities  are  genu- 
ous  and  fervent,  admiration  and  compassion,  for  persons  of  a 
different  sex,  are  so  apt  to  slide  into  a  different  sentiment,  and 
the  compassionater  herself  all  the  while  unconscious  of  what  is 
going  on  within,  that  I  have,  I  own  Jessy,  been  somewhat 
uneasy. 

"  Such  interest  as  you  take  in  this  man  ;  such  delight  as  your 
sparkling  eye  betrays  while  listening  to  him  ;  such  craving  after 
all  that  I  can  tell  you  of  him ;  such  eagerness  to  vindicate  him 
from  my  disparaging  conjectures  ;  such  humiliation  as  his  ne- 
glect of  you  occasions ! 

"  All  these  are  worthy  of  your  liberal  heart.  They  argue  no- 
thing but  that,  at  present,  you  admire  and  pity.  All  my  appre- 
hension relates  to  what  may  be — what  structure  time  may  raisfc 
on  this  foundation. 

"  Besides,  when  I  reasoned  thus  upon  appearances,  I  was  not 
aware  of  what  this  conversation  has  partly  disclosed  ;  I  did  not 
know  that  my  sister  reasoned  as  she  now  seems  to  reason ;  I  was 


155 

far  from  thinking  that  the  consequence  alluded  to,  had,  ia  your 
eyes,  so  few  attractions  and  so  many  obstacles.  Why,  thought!, 
should  this  girl  be  vigilant  to  check  those  grateful  impulses  ?  Her 
heart  was  formed  for  love.  She  will  never  taste  true  happiness 
till  she  finds  some  being  on  whom  to  bestow  all  her  affections. 
Why  not  bestow  them  on  Golden,  with  all  his  graces  and  merits, 
whom  she  sees  so  nearly  and  so  often  ?  What  can  thwart  the  na- 
tural course  of  her  feelings,  but  the  fear  of  not  being  requited,  and 
what  is  there  to  instil  such  a  fear  ? 

"  Enamoured  hearts  are  seldom  diffident  of  their  own  merit. 
Their  gratitude,  their  services,  they  usually  deem  a  sufficient  re- 
compense for  the  love  they  claim.  Minds,  in  most  respects  une- 
qual, find  seldom  any  difficulty  in  uniting,  and  supposing  Golden 
to  be,  what  he  seems  to  be,  there  is  far  from  being  any  remarka- 
ble disparity  between  him  and  Jessy. 

"  O  !  My  brother,  cried  I,  in  a  painful  confusion,  how  can  you 
say  so  ? 

"  The  strongest  mind  and  the  most  enlightened,  looks  not,  in 
women,  for  various  knowledge  and  studious  zeal  like  its  own. 
These  are  not  the  cementing  powers  between  the  sexes.  These 
give  not  birth  to  love,  and  form  not  the  charms  of  wedlock.  It 
is  the  concord  of  hearts,  the  mingli;ig  of  affections,  that  give  forc^ 
to  this  bond.  Does  not  Jessy  know  this,  and  may  she  not  then 
make  herself  a  merit  in  her  love  ? 

"  That  the  difference  of  Golden's  birth  and  education  from  your 
own,  the  uncertainty  of  his  present  condition,  whence  he  comes, 
what  connections  or  embarrassments  he  may  have  left  behind, 
what  stay  he  may  make  among  us,  and  whither  he  will  go,  wheij 
he  does  go  ;  that  these  uncertainties  occupied  so  much  place  in 
your  mind,  as  they  now  seem  to  do,  I  had  no  means  of  knowing 
till  now. 

"  I  rejoice  that  you  allow  these  uncertainties  so  much  weight. 
Let  them,  I  admonish  you  most  earnestly,  let  them  always  be 
present  and  outweigh  every  sentiment  that  his  company  may 
excite  in  your  heart  bv  mere  complacency  and  good  will. 

"  And  thus  ended,  mv  Sophy,  a  conference  more  painful  to  me 
than  I  can  describe.  Why  did  I  repeat  it  to  you  ?  1  have  only 
called  up  again  the  pain  it  gave  me,  and  now  is  my  heart  so 
greatly  depressed,  that  I  can  write  no  more. 


156 

''  Cheer  me  Sophia,  by  thy  letters.  Tell  me  what  I  should  thmk ,, 
how  I  should  act.  I  see  that  I  am  not  fit,  in  your  and  my  bro- 
ther's opinion,  to  govern  myself. 


Never,  Sophy,  did  I  so  much  wish  to  be  with  you  as  now.  I 
would  be  any  where  but  here  and  in  the  company  of  this  man. 
When  in  the  same  room,  at  the  same  table,  with  him,  ray  uneasi- 
ness is  greatest,  but  loneliness  and  sleep  do  not  take  it  away. 
These  hints  and  precautions  of  you  and  my  brother  have  bereav- 
ed me  of  my  comforts.  I  know  no  inmates  of  my  heart,  but 
doubts,  fears  and  suspicions,  and  my  heart  detests  such  visitants. 
"  I  am  afraid  of  doing  wrong.  I  must  act  and  speak,  but  I  am 
no  judge  of  consequences,  and  to  mean  well,  will  not  always  pre- 
vent mischief. 

"  Can't  I  see  you  Sophy  ?  Will  not  you  fetch  me  away  ?  Your 
sweet  retreat  must  have  numberless  charms  at  this  season,  and  all 
is  here  so  dusty  and  so  hot.  Such  myriads  of  insects  teazing  us 
all  day  and  stinging  us  all  night.  We  live  near  the  road,  which 
is  only  an  heap  of  dust,  which  wheels  and  horses,  going  to  and 
fro  all  day,  raise  into  clouds,  that  doors  and  windows  cannot 
keep  out,  and  that  rest  upon  chairs  and  tables  polluting  and  dis- 
ordering whatever  it  touches.  The  very  ivy  at  my  back  window 
is  whitened  and  loaded  with  it. 

"  And  then  the  heat !  I  wonder  such  an  air  as  this  does  not 
breed  plagues  worse  than  that  of  flies  and  gnats,  which  it  does 
breed.  Yet  a  worse  plague  it  has  bred  in  me  ;  the  plague  of  an 
impatient  spirit ;  a  plague  worse  than  Egypt  ever  knew. 

"  The  sun  at  noon-day,  shining  full  upon  this  low  roof,  makes 
every  thing  almost  too  hot  to  be  touched.  The  night  is  not  long 
enough  to  cool  the  air,  and  the  breezes,  of  late,  seem  all  to  have 
passed  through  an  oven  before  thi  y  reached  us.  Last  night  I 
chanced  to  leave  a  knife  blade  on  the  window — this  morning,  at 
ten,  I  saw  it  where  it  lay  in  the  sunshine,  and  took  it  in.  Will 
you  believe  me,  Sophia  ?  I  was  obliged  instantly  to  drop  it  on 
the  floor,  it  was  so  hot.  I  dropt  it,  else,  I  verily  believe,  it  had 
scorched  my  fingers. 

"  And  in  this  weather,  Sophia,  must  thy  poor  friend  broil  and 
bake,  not  her  mutton  and  potatoes  merely,  but  herself.     The 


157 

uoals  must  be  brightened,  morning  and  noon,  the  pot  must  be 
filled,  whether  the  sun  shines  or  not.  This  it  is  that  makes  my 
languor  so  extreme  at  this  season.  Hardly  can  I  go  up  stairs. 
Indeed  I  am  obliged  to  rest  in  going  up.  My  aching  knees  ab- 
solutely require  it. 

"  I  can  eat  scarcely  any  thing.  My  appetite  goes  quite  away 
in  summer,  and  it  puzzles  me  to  find  out  how  I  reach  the  autumn 
alive.  Yet  by  summer's  end  1  am  scarcely  half  alive.  Pale  as 
as  ashes,  meagre,  spiritless,  her  substance  half  dissolved,  is  thy 
Jessy  by  the  time  that  the  air  begins  to  be  refreshed  by  the  gales 
of  November. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer.  My  brother  says  he  will  send 
his  Jenny  to  keep  house  for  me,  whenever  I  choose  to  visit  you, 
so  send  for  me,  Sophia,  as  soon  as  you  can. 


"What  a  weak,  foolish  creature  am  I  grown!  I  am  quite 
other  than  1  was.  Some  evil  spirit  has  got  hold  of  me,  without 
doubt.  He  it  was,  surely,  that  made  use  of  my  pen,  and  wrote 
thee  such  a  letter  yesterday. 

"  Such  a  letter,  Sophia  !  For  me  to  write.  To  paint  my  situ- 
ation in  such  exaggerated  colours :  to  determine  to  leave  my 
mother !  No.     It  was  not  I. 

"  I  am  greatly  astonished  at  the  state  of  my  mind,  for  these 
last  three  days.  Surely,  Sophia,  my  intellects  have  not  been 
quite  sound.  Never  did  1  feel  before  as  I  have  lately  done. 
Are  there  not  cases  of  insanity,  coming  on  without  warning,  and 
lasting  for  a  little  while  ;  and  has  not  this  been  such  a  one  ?  I 
strongly  suspect  it  has.  It  has  gone,  and  methinks  it  never  will 
come  back  again.     Alas  1  What  assurance  can  I  have  of  that  ? 

"The  heat!  the  dust!  the  insects!   Did  I  ever  complain  of 

these  before,  and  have  I  not  always  had  as  much  reason  ?  Many 

days  within  this  month  have  been  as  hot,  as  dry  and  as  stagnant 

as  yesterday,  yet  I  never  repined  at  such  trifling  inconveni- 
encies. 

"  Whatever  is  painful  in  my  condition,  have  I  not  chosen  it, 
for  my  mother's  sake  ?  I  need  not  stay  in  this  cottage,  but  as  long 
as  I  please.  Has  not  that  tutelary  angel,  to  whom  I  now  write,  of- 
fered every  good  that  the  most  aspiring  heart  can  wish,  and  the 
proudest  fortune  bestow  ?    I  may  live  with  her,  all  her  leisure. 


158 

Ivixuries  and  enjoyments  may  be  mine  too,  if  I  please,  and  why 
dp  I  not  take  them  ? 

"  B.  cause  I  must  not,  cannot,  forsake  my  mother.  I  am  not, 
ii^dL  ea,  fit  to  enter  the  high  and  the  gay  world.  I  was  born  for 
pi ;'  acy,  seclusion  and  an  humble  lot.  I  love  my  cottage,  for  my 
own  and  my  dear  sister's  sake,  who  lived  and  died  under  its  roof; 
but  I  would  not  live  in  it  alone,  nor  pass  my  time  in  it,  as  I  now 
do,  were  I  to  take  counsel  of  my  own  independent  inclination. 

"  None  of  this  broiling  and  baking  would  1  do,  to  serve  myself. 
I  would  live  as  our  guest  does,  and  my  fcK^d,  preferable  to  my 
palate,  in  itself,  should  cost  me  no  trouble  at  all,  and  not  one 
tenth  of  the  expense  of  our  present  living ;  but  my  mother  can- 
not, and  I  wish  her  not,  to  change  her  habits  merely  to  save  mc 
trouble. 

"  I  might  persuade  her  too  to  leave  this  house,  and  go,  as  my 
brother  has  long  wished  us  to  do,  a  few  miles  from  the  city. 
There  is  many  a  sweet  spot  on  the  Hudson,  where  we  might  find 
a  green  and  quiet  abode,  and  to  please  me,  my  mother  would 
consent  to  go  ;  but  this  would  be  with  much  reluctance,  and  my 
brother  would  be  obliged  to  supply  from  his  own  stock,  the  mo- 
ney which  I  now  earn,  and  which  is  equal  to  my  own  mainte- 
nance. 

"  You  too,  Sophia,  have  exhorted  me  to  leave  town,  and  offer- 
ed the  means  necessary  for  doing  it  without  injury.  I  have  iK>t 
declined  accepting  the  loan,  from  any  pride  or  perverseness  of 
temper,  but  merely  through  regard  to  my  mother's  wishes,  and 
because,  in  truth,  my  cottage  and  my  homely  tasks,  are  not  dis- 
pleasing to  me. 

"  Let  me  dispatch  this  letter,  after  yesterday's,  without  loss  of 
time,  that  it  may  save  you  the  trouble  of  sending  for  me.  I  have 
much  to  say  to  you,  Sophia,  but  have  not  time  just  now. 


*'  Now  am  I  tranquil  and  joyous  once  more.  I  feel,  methinks, 
as  I  used  to  do.  My  brother's  counsels,  that  humbled  and  af- 
flicted me  so  much,  ai"e  remembered  with  thankfulness  and 
pleasure.  His  caution  v.as  indeed  needless, but  his  kindness  in- 
duced him  to  give  it,  and  I  should  love  him  the  better  for  his 
kiadness. 


159 

*'  Yet  they  had  a  deep  influence  for  a  time.  The  disquiets 
they  gave  me  were  always  strongest  in  his  company,  and  though  I 
tried  to  behave  with  composure  and  collectedness  before  him,  I 
could  not  succeed.  Yet  he  seemed  not  to  notice  me  till  yester- 
day at  tea.  I  had  just  finished  my  foolish  letter  to  thee,  and  that  ' 
employment  had  only  disturbed  me  the  more,  when  I  was 
obliged  to  go  down.  For  some  time  he  was  absent  and  thought- 
ful, as  usual.  At  last,  his  attention  seemed  to  be  caught  by 
something  in  my  looks.  A  glance  now  and  then,  half  inquisi- 
tive, I  thought,  and  so  benign,  Julia !  The  benignity  of  his  eyes 
%vas  new,  was  sudden.  I  had  never  seen  it  before.  Commonly, 
his  features  have  been  darkened  by  comfortless  reflections. 
They  are  commonly  austere,  but  now  a  ray  of  sweet  benignity 
seemed  luminously  to  diff"use  itself  over  all  his  features. 

"  Yet  how  did  I  know  all  this  ?  I,  to  whom  his  attention  made 
it  only  more  difficult  to  look  at  him. 

"  I  don't  know  how :  I  knew  it  by  sympathy,  I  believe.  I  felt 
my  cheeks  glow  with  new  embarrassment.  He  said  nothing  and 
quickly  retired. 

"  How  was  it,  Sophia,  that  this  little  incident  almost  instantly 
changed  my  feelings.  I  went  up  stairs  again  to  my  chamber, 
but  the  mood  was  changed.  The  heat,  the  gnats,  the  dust  no 
longer  incommoded  me.  I  was  not  well,  yet  my  spirits  were  ex- 
alted into  heavenly  serenity. 

"  This  man,  Sophia,  has  a  soul.  I  am  sure  he  has.  I  read 
it  in  that  look.  Wrong,  you  often  tell  me  to  judge  of  men  by 
their  looks.  Wrong  or  not,  there  are  cases,  when  not  to  judge 
thus,  is  impossible.     Impossible,  at  least,  for  me. 

"  And  this  it  is  that  pleases  me  so  much.  A  noble,  a  benefi- 
cient  aspect  in  man  is,  of  all  earthly  things,  the  most  attractive  to 
my  gaze.  Do  not  some  say,  I  think  I  have  been  told  so,  that 
the  Deity  possesses  an  human  shape,  the  man  of  this  world  be- 
ing fashioned  after  the  image  of  the  Universal  Maker  ? 

"  Do  not  smile  at  me,  my  friend.  Above  all,  beware,  I  charge 
you,  of  dealing  out  unwarrantable  inferences,  from  v/hat  I  shall 
tell  you.  I  fear  you  a  great  deal,  but  that  shall  not  hinder  me 
from  saying,  that  to  me  there  appears  somewhat  dh'mc  in  the 
face  of  our  guest.  'Tis  a  book  full  of  sublime  and  excellent 
meaning.     3Iethinks  I  could  read  in  it  for-rver. 


160 

"-  fiut  iill  the  rest  of  him  is  fully  worthy  of  his  face.  I  mean 
his  personals.  I  know  but  little  of  the  rest.  Yet  his  face  tells 
me  much,  and  indeed  his  conversation  with  my  brother,  has  un- 
folded a  few  things. 

*'  Would  to  heaven  he  would  deign  to  talk  to  me.  Yet  the 
very  thought  of  that  makes  me  tremble.  What  a  poor  part 
should  I  act !  What  could  I  say  ?  I  know  nothing  that  he 
knows.  I  have  never  been  where  he  has  been.  And  what  oc- 
curs within  my  little  sphere,  is  all  trifling  and  despicable.  No 
fit  subjects  to  talk  to  him  upon. 

"  But  could  I  not  listen  ?  Methinks  I  should  listen  eagerly. 
I  have  a  great  desire,  you  know,  to  learn,  and  though  reading  is 
to  me  but  a  dull  task  ,1  have  always  had  a  great  passion  for 
listening.  I  know  I  should  be,  not,  indeed,  an  apt,  but  a  most 
willing  and  obsequious  scholar.  By  dint  of  zeal  1  might  get  for- 
ward ;  perhaps  rise  to  something  in  time. 

"  And  how  shall  I  prevail  on  him  to  talk  ?  Why  not  tell  him 
my  wishes  ?  Why  not  ask  him  to  talk  ?  Why  not  say  to  him, 
"  Here,  Sir,  is  a  poor  girl  who  knows  nothing,  but  who  wants  to 
know  every  thing.  Have  you  nothing  in  all  that  travelling  and 
books,  and  education  have  given  you,  suited  to  her  childish  ig- 
norance and  incapacity  ;  something  which  she  will  be  the  better 
for  knowing,  and  which  it  may  not  be  unamusing  to  yourself  to 
communicate  ?  You  meet  her  twice  or  thrice  a  day.  You  are 
obliged  to  endure  her  company  for  a  little  while — Why  not,  good 
sir,  devote  that  little  to  her  benefit  ? 

"  She  is  not  a  Avorthless  or  stupid  creature,  I  believe.  Hex 
heart  is  composed  of  fibres  that  vibrate  easily  and  strongly. 
The}'^  are  moved  bv  the  least  breath,  but  are  touched  into  har- 
mony  by  nothing  sooner  than  by  gratitude  and  pity. 

"  You  are  not  happy,  good  sir.  Will  not  a  docile  ear  and  grate- 
ful heart,  even  in  so  trivial  a  thing  as  I,  beguile  you  of  a  few 
moraents  of  uneasiness.  While  you  talk  to  me,  you  will  cease 
to  think  of  that  which  gives  }ou  pain." 

''  Now,  Sophia,  v/hv  should  I  not  speak  thus  to  our  guest  r 
He  would  not  repulse  me,  as  forward  and  impertinent,  would 
he  ?  I  have  a  good  mind  to  try ;  but  I  know  I  should  never 
muster  up  courage. 


161 

I  wish  he  would  begin  with  me.  In  him,  it  would  be  condcr 
ucending,  and  therefore  easy ;  but  in  me — No,  I  shall  never  have 
courage  to  begin  discourse  with  him.  I  wish  he  knew  how  de- 
sirous I  am  to  be  talked  to.  Is  there  no  way  indirectly  and  by 
way  of  hint  ? 

"  Would  I  knew  something  more  of  him.  By  that  know- 
ledge, perhaps,  I  might  regulate  my  approaches,  and  is  there  no 
means  of  knowing  ?  He  writes  and  reads  not  at  all,  I  believe. 
One  day  he  opened  Moshiem's  history,  that  lay  in  the  window. 
Something  caught  his  eye  for  three  minutes.  He  read  the  page 
and  then  left  it.  Luckily  he  opened  where  a  shred  of  linen  lay, 
so  that  I  was  able,  as  soon  as  he  went  out,  to  look  at  the  pass- 
age. 

"  I  understood   not  much  of  it.     It   talked  about  a  certain 

Jerome,  who  was  burnt  at  Constance,  for  heresy — the  disciple  of  a 
certain  John  Hiiss.  What  a  strange  effect,  Sophia,  has  reading 
upon  thy  poor  friend.  It  shews  me,  only  more  clearly,  the  ex- 
tent of  my  ignorance.  Every  thing  alluded  to  in  this  account, 
was  strange  to  me.  I  asked  myself  questions.  Where,  said  I, 
is  Prague  ?  What  were  the  incidents  of  Zisca's  war  ?  Where- 
fore did  the  Prince  quarrel  with  his  subjects  ?  What  did  one 
demand  and  the  other  refuse  ?  And  who  were  they  who  sat  in 
counsel,  and  caused  the  venerable  Jerome  to  be  burnt? 

"  Alas !  None  of  these  questions  was  I  able  to  answer.  Now 
Colden,  I  suppose,  has  all  this  in  his  possession,  and,  perhaps, 
would  despise  me,  on  finding  me  so  ignorant.  Yet  why  should 
not  a  man  find  pleasure,  in  removing  ignorance,  in  imparting  his 
knowledge  ?  Suppose  I  should  put  those  questions  to  him  ?  No- 
thing improper,  I  should  think,  in  that.  But  whence,  would  he 
not  ask,  could  I  glean  such  odd  inquiries  ?  What  are  Zisca  and 
Jerome  and  Bohemian  battles  to  me  ?  Better,  surely,  exercise 
my  curiosity  on  other  subjects ;  but  what  other  ? 

"  Some,  they  must  be,  on  which  he  is  able  to  instruct  me  : 
else  to  put  my  questions  to  him  would  be  absurd.  Yet  why  not 
be  inquisitive  on  the  same  subjects  with  him  ?  The  Taborites 
and  Calaxtines  are  as  much  to  me  as  to  another.  They  are  men, 
and  their  fate  ought  not  to  excite  the  less  sympathy  in  us,  be- 
cause they  lived  a  great  while  ago,  and  a  great  way  off,  if  their 
story  be  truly  and  circumstantially  told. 

21 


162 

"  Religion,  it  seems,  was  the  hand  that  set  fire  to  their  pas- 
sions. Jerome  preached  a  new  religion.  Many  people  believed, 
but  the  rulers  were  not  convinced,  and  killed  every  body  that 
believed  like  Jerome.  I  should  like  to  know  what  it  was  that 
Jerome  preached,  and  whether  he  or  the  council  were  in  the 
right.  There  must  have  been  some  very  great  difference  be- 
tween them  surely,  to  make  one  so  cruel  and  the  other  so  ob- 
stinate. 

"  Will  not  IMosheim  tell  me  all  this  ?  I  have  half  a  mind  to  read 
the  book.  If  ever  Golden  should  talk  to  me,  how  would  he  be 
surprised  to  find  me  so  knowing  as  this  book  would  make  me  • 
Some  inducement,  too,  to  speak  to  me,  he  observing  me  thus 
employed.  A  proof,  it  would  be,  that  my  thoughts  sometimes 
rose  above  the  tea-pot  and  the  stew-pan, 

"  Don't  be  surprised,  that  I  run  on  thus,  Sophia.  Don't  be  an- 
gry, especially  as  I  stop  merely  through  compassion  to  you. 
J  could  write  twice  as  much  before  I  sleep,  but  I  must  not  trust 
too  much  to  your  indulgence.     So,  adieu. 


"  How,  Sophia,  do  you  think  this  morning  has  been  busied  ? 
I  wish  I  were  near  enough  to  hear  your  guesses. 

"  Getting  breakfast,  I  suppose.  Attending  your  mamma. 
*  Working  at  a  wrint-band." 

"  To  be  sure,  but  what  besides  these  ? 

"  In  reverie,  perhaps,  while  the  bed  is  made  and  the  floor 
sanded. 

"  Certainly ;  but  what  else  ? 

"  Why — reading. 

"  Yesterday's  design,  respecting  ]Mosheim,  has  been  executed. 
You  began  to  study,  at  last. 

*'  No  such  thing.  Sometime  hence,  perhaps  to-morrow,  I 
may  begin,  but,  to-day,  I  had  other  business. 

"  What!  Had  vou  a  long  conversation  with  your  guest  i  Has 
the  statue  opened  its  mouth  at  last  ? 

Ah  !  Sophy  !  Would  that  guess  was  the  true  one.  But  I  will 
tell  you  what  it  was. 

"  I  awoke  pretty  early,  earlier  by  far  than  common.    I  thought 


163 

of  course,  on  all  that  had  lately  passed.  It  was  a  motley,  a  sur- 
prising scene,  Sophia.  Some  parts  of  it  engaged  me  more  than 
others.  Especially  Colden's  conversations  with  my  brother. 
All  of  them  (by-the-bye  there  have  been  but  two  in  my  hearing) 
were  remembered,  and  now  I  repeated  them  to  myself. 

"  But,  thought  I,  shall  I  always  remember  them  so  exactly  as 
now.  Time,  perhaps,  will  slowly  wear  the  traces  out.  A  good 
scheme,  to  write  them  down.  Then  they  will  always  be  vivid 
and  at  hand.  And  how  can  my  active  pen  be  better  employed  ? 
Let  me  see,  what  can  be  done,  before  breakfast  time,  this  very 
morning.  Full  two  hours  from  the  dawn  of  day,  till  my  mother 
stirs. 

"  So  I  watched  the  stars  till  they  faded  away.  Then  I  got 
up,  and  my  paper  was  before  me,  and  my  pen  in  hand,  some  mi- 
nutes before  the  light  was  strong  enough  to  let  me  use  them.  I 
looked  very  impatiently  at  the  east.  My  window  gives  me  a  full 
view  of  that  quarter  of  the  heavens.  The  air  was.  deliciously 
cool,  and  my  mind  glowed  the  more  fervently  on  that  ac- 
count. 

"  I  soon  began  to  write,  and  finished  my  task,  I  assure  thee, 
before  the  sweet  face  of  my  Hannah  (she  sleeps  in  my  mothei^'s 
room)  showed  itself  at  my  door.  A  great  deal  too  was  to  be 
said,  but  I  hurried  forward  my  pen,  minding  not  my  dashes  and 
my  commas.  I  wrote  it  for  myself  alone,  yet  I  will  send  it  to 
my  Sophia,  if  she  wishes  it,  on  condition  that  she  sends  it  back  in 
due  season. 

"  It  was  done — every  syllable  of  these  two  talkers  was  put 
down,  and  proud  was  I  of  my  exploit.  What  a  difference, 
my  friend,  between  this  morning  and  all  my  former  ones.  Me- 
thinks  that  thus  to  spend  every  morning  would  be  highly  benefi- 
cial. Such  a  contrast  would  it  prove  to  the  molested  sleep,  the 
confused  dreams,  in  which  my  mornings  heretofore  have  been 
spent. 

"  Yet  this  is  not  the  first  attempt  at  early  rising.  I  have  often 
determined  to  rise  with  the  sun,  but  so  drowsy,  so  comfortless, 
have  I  felt,  so  impatient  of  my  mind's  vacancy,  and  so  vainly 
striving  to  keep  the  needle  going,  that  I  as  ofcen  gave  up  the 
scheme. 

"  Nothing  of  all  this  did  I  now  feel.      I  was  all  alert,  spright- 


164 

ly,  impetuous.  My  thoughts  glowed,  and  as  they  followed  each 
other  to  the  pen,  my  soul  was  visited,  it  seemed,  by  glimpses  of 
a  pure,  a  supernal  light.  I  once,  Sophia,  thought  sewing  was 
pltasant.  Lately  its  reputation  has  sunk  a  little  with  me.  I  like 
the  pen  better. 

"  As  usual,  I  met  Golden  at  breakfast.  The  remembrance  of 
how  I  had  lately  been  employed,  gave  me  some  credit  in  my  own 
eyes.     Ought  it  not  to  give  me  some  ?   At  least,  with  him  ? 

"  "Wny  not,  thought  I  once,  tell  this  man  what  I  have  been  do- 
ing ?  Such  a  dumb  reserve  on  either  side  !  Justifiable,  perhaps 
in  him  from  his  ignorance  of  what  is  passing  in  my  heart.  Let 
me  pluck  up  reasonable,  decent  courage,  and  break  the  spell. 
Once  broken,  it  will  nevtr  be  formed  again. 

"  I  had  done  it,  I  believe.  A  fluttering  heart,  needless  move- 
ments of  the  tea-cup,  were  preludes  which  should  have  ended 
in  a — "  Prav,  sir,  will  }  ou  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  what  religious 
people  mean  when  thev  talk  of  receiving'  the  cup  in  both  kinds  ?"' 
But  he  left  me  before  the  preludes  were  at  an  end  :  Sorely,  to  my 
disappointment.  All  the  courage  and  tranquillity  which  I  had  en- 
joyed, for  a  few  days,  had  like  to  have  deserted  me.  I  hemmed 
and  sighed  it  away,  and  conquered  my  dejection  the  sooner  by 
thus  betaking  myself  to  the  pen. 


"  Pray  send  for  me,  Sophia  ;  pray  do.  Not  a  moment  long- 
er under  this  roof — that  1  am  determined.     A  rude  ;  an  inso- 

IpT^f ,  I  W    *     ^     VT     ^    "tF 

"Faithful  pen!  Let  me  intrust  to  thee,  and  to  my  Sophia,  all 
the  feelings  of  this  simple  and  wayward  heart.     What,  O  my  un 
governable  heart,  shall  I  compare  the  to  ? 

"  Tears,  scalding  tears,  tears  of  indignation  ;  of  anger  at  m^  - 
self  and  the  world,  burst  forth,  but  now  my  tears  rebuked  them- 
selves. 'Tis  well  I  have  no  witnesses  to  my  intirmity.  Should 
I  not  die  with  shame  if  there  were  ? 

"  Yet  my  poor  mother  thought  that  something  was  the  mat- 
ter. ■  The  sob,  not  effectually  stifled,  the  voice,  broken  and  un 
even,  excited  her  notice. 


165 

"  Why,  Jessy,  my  dear,  what  ails  you  ? 

"  Nothing  at  all  mamma.  Will  you  have  your  gruel  now  ? 
stammered  I,  awkwardly  endeavoring  thus  to  draw  away  her 
thoughts.     And  all  my  tears,  for  what  ? 

"  Ah  Sophia  !  You  must  cast  away  the  frail  and  perverse  Jes- 
sica. She  merits  not  thy  love.  My  confession  will  make  it  but 
too  evident. 

"  I  spent  this  morning  in  quieting  those  scruples  that  had  hi- 
therto, as  I  imagined,  stood  so  much  in  the  way  of  conversation 
with  our  guest.  I  persuaded  myself  to  take  courage  and  ad- 
dress myself  to  him,  while  at  tea.  Various  questions  1  thought 
of,  with  which  I  might  begin,  by  asking  him.  I  was  at  great 
pains  to  find  out  a  suitable  question,  and  when  I  found  it,  I 
weighed  very  carefully  the  words  I  should  use.  Having  settled 
all  these  difficult  points,  I  waited,  with  some  impatience,  for  the 
evening.  It  came,  at  last,  and  at  the  usual  time.  I  found  my- 
self seated  opposite  to  him  at  the  tea-table. 

"  Methought  it  was  more  solemn  than  usual.  There  was  an 
air  of  more  disquiet,  and  greater  inattention  to  me,  was  evident. 
This  discouraged  me,  a  good  deal.  I  felt  my  resolution  sink- 
ing. I  struggled  to  keep  it  alive,  and  at  last,  as  I  held  the  plate, 
with  a  slice  of  bread,  to  him,  I  said — Pray,  sir — There  I 
stopped. 

"  His  attention  was  roused.  He  looked  at  me  with  curiosity, 
and  I  resumed  with  a  world  of  hesitation  and  embarrassment — 
Pray,  sir — Yet  I  am  loath  to  trouble  you  with  such  idle  ques- 
tions. I  could  not  go  on.  With  an  air  of  benignity,  he  now- 
said — You  cannot  imagine,  Sophia,  the  sound  of  his  voice.  It  is 
awfully  sweet,  to  my  ears,  especially  when  kindly  modulated,  as 
it  now  was — but  he  said :  All  your  questions,  if  I  can  answer,  I 
will  answer  cheerfully. 

"  It  was  only — I  was  thinking  this  morRing—what  it  was — 
what  hai-m  there  could  be — I  forget  what  I  wish  to  know,  and  to 
ask  so  strange  a  question  of  you. 

"  Pray,  said  he,  with  increasing  affability,  let  me  fully  know 
your  doubts  ;  I  will  remove  them  if  I  can. 

It  was  only  this.  What  harm,  I  thought,  this  morning,  can 
there  be  in  leaving  the  Romish  religion  and  turning  Protestant, 
that  people  must  be  burnt  alive  for  doing  so. 


.      166 

"  O  Sophia !  I  shudder  even  now  to  tell  you  what  followed. 
Such  a  propitious  beginning  to  end  so ! 

"  He  started  half  up,  cast  a  dreadful  look  at  me — uttered  not 
a  syllable,  but,  after  a  moment's  pause,  seized  his  hat  and  hur- 
ried out  of  the  room. 

"  Such  was  the  issue  of  my  foolibh  experiment.  Deeply,  and 
with  burning  tears,  did  I  see  my  folly,  my  rashness.  So  blind 
was  I,  not  to  see  the  impropriety  of  my  inquiry.  Yet  who 
would  have  suspected  it  to  be  improper  ?  Sure  I  am,  I  intended 
no  ill. 

"  But  I  have  done,  methought,  some  bad  thing,  that  he  can 
never  forgive.  He  will  change  his  lodgings  to  be  sure,  to  avoid 
being  tormented  by  my  impertinent  curiosity.  Well  j  well ; — • 
Let  him  g-o  ;  a  haughty  ;  unaccountable  ;  mysterious — and  the 
sooner  he  will  go  the  better.  Either  will  be  less  unhappy  in  the 
absence  of  the  other. 

"  O  Sophia,  these  v.-ere  unhappy  moments  to  me.  I  could 
not  endure  home.  I  could  not  bear  myself,  and  went  out  to 
walk,  though  tlie  air  was  very  gloomy  and  blustering,  and  big 
^rops  of  rain  began  already  to  fall. 

"  1  took,  pensively,  the  way  across  the  fields,  towards  the  Hud- 
son. You  know  the  hill,  from  the  side  of  which  you  overlook 
Wantsey's  Marsh.  'Tis  pretty  steep,  and  some  old  trees  are 
scattered  on  the  edge  of  it,  whose  shade  is  pleasant  at  noon,  and 
whose  covert  makes  the  evening  gloom  still  deeper.  I  sat  me 
down  under  one  of  these,  quite  thoughtless  of  the  time,  and  of 
every  thing  but  Colden's  strange  demeanour. 

"The  night  came  on,  and  I  still  was  seated  on  a  grassy  hil- 
lock all  alone.  People  frequently  ramble  here  on  summer  even- 
ings, and  a  solitary  girl  like  me,  might  well  be  timid.  At  other 
times  I  should  have  been  so,  but  now  I  felt  nothing  like  fear.  I 
thought  not  once  of  my  situation. 

"  At  last,  perhaps,  it  was  an  hour  after  dark,  something  hap- 
pened, I  don't  know  what,  to  rouse  me  from  my  dream.  I  saw 
it  was  a  very  dark  night,  so  much  so,  that  I  feared  I  should  hard- 
ly find  my  wa)-  back.  Just  then,  mctliought,  I  saw  a  large  figure 
moving  towards  this  spot,  brushing  through  the  long  dry  grass. 
I  was  fu.il  of  tKmonrs.     ]My  knees  shook  so  much,  that  I  could 


167 

not  for  a  moment,  get  on  my  feet,  yet  I  dreaded  to  remain,  and 
wanted  to  hurry  away. 

"  The  figure  still  came  on,  and  when  near  me,  suddenly  stopt, 
observing  me,  no  doubt,  and  wondering  what  could  induce  a  girl 
like  me  to  trust  herself,  alone,  at  this  time  o*night,  so  far  from 
home.  By  this  time,  I  found  my  feet,  and  starting  up,  was  go- 
ing, when  the  person  said,  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  Jessy  Arnot. 
Is  it  you. 

"  O  my  Sophia !  The  voice  was  Colden's.  How  I  trembled. 
He  did  not  tell  me  to  stop,  yet  1  did  stop.  I  could  not  move  a 
step  further.  I  did  not  answer  him  neither.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
had  not  breath  enough  to  utter  a  syllable. 

"  He  came  up  to  me— Why,  said  he,  it  is  Jessy  indeed.  My 
good  girl !  You  have  strayed  far. 

"  Good  girl !  Sophia,  in  a  tone  so  kind !  "What  a  change  was 
here.  My  heart  was  now  in  greater  tumults  than  ever.  Ap- 
prehension, joy,  surprise,  seemed  all  to  swell  my  bosom  at  the 
same  time.  I  could  not  find  words,  till  he  had  repeated — A 
late  hour,  Jessy,  to  be  thus  far  from  home. 

"  It  is,  indeed,  said  I,  it  was  very  wrong  of  me ;  but  don't 
know  how  it  was.  I  walked  on  without  thinking,  and  sat  here, 
inattentive  to  the  things  around  me.  I  shall  never  do  the  like 
again,  I  am  sure. 

*'  No  common  theme  must  have  engrossed  you  so  much,  said 
he,  in  a  tone,  as  I  thought,  of  interrogation. 

"  Now  was  the  trembling  fool  more  embarrassed  than  ever. 
Did  he  suspect  what  1  was  musing  on?  Never,  my  friend,  was 
there  a  worse  dissembler  than  thy  Jessy.  Her  heart  is  in  the 
hand  of  every  one,  that  wishes  to  have  it  there. 

"  Nothing,  not  much,  stammered  I,  in  a  hurry,  I  was  only 
sorry — grieved  for — because —      ^ 

*'  Lord  bless  me,  Sophia,  what  was  I  about  ?  Was  I  going  to 
say  how  his  fierceness  had  affected  me  ?  I  suppose  I  was,  and 
should  have  said  it  then,  but  his  anger  before,  and  his  kindness 
now,  were  too  much  for  me.  I  could  not  say  more  for  tears,, 
that  impertinently  came  into  my  eyes. 

"  His  accents  betrayed  more  kindness,  as  well  as  some  sur- 
prise. 


168 

"  You  were  sorry  ;  you  were  grieved,  Jessy.  For  what  ?  May 
I  know  the  cause  ? 

"  I  grieved  for  my  own  rashness ;  for  having  given  anger  and 
pain,  by  my  impertinence ;  for  having  met  with  sharp  rebuke, 
where  I  meant  no  ill,  and  stern  repulse,  where  I  sought  know- 
ledge. 

*'  This  hint  gave  him  evident  disturbance.  He  seemed  to 
breathe  hard  while  he  spoke. 

"  No  more  of  that,  good  girl.  I  was  the  faulty  wretch,  not 
you.  Allow  for  my  infirmity.  It  was  a  fi-eak  not  to  be  account- 
ed for,  or  justified,  and  I  wanted  to  see  you  and  atone  for  it. 
Pass  it  over ;  think  of  it  no  more,  will  you  ? 

"  Golden  thus  to  humble  himself  at  my  feet ;  to  confess  himself 
in  error  ;  to  ask  forgiveness  from  me.  I  could  not  answer  him, 
Sophia ;  I  could  not,  indeed.  Marking  my  unwilling  silence,  I 
hope  he  saw  it  to  be  unwilling,  he  continued : 

*""  Your  ingenuous  heart  must  seek  a  diflferent  instructor.  I  am 
not  worthy  to  be  your  teacher.  What  knowledge  you  want,  I 
am  unable  to  communicate — 

"  Here  ensued  a  long  pause.  It  was  not  for  me  to  break  it. 
Meanwhile,  we  walked  forward,  and  had,  by  this  time,  got  into 
Broadway. 

*'  You  know  the  way  now,  he  said.  My  path  leads  me  differ- 
ently.    So  saying,  he  left  me,  and  walked  quickly  away. 

"  I  hurried  home,  wanting  the  kind  solitude  of  my  chamber 
to  think.  Sophia  ?  There  is  something  in  all  this — exalting,  shall 
I  call  it,  to  thy  poor  friend  ?  Bewildering,  it  surely  is.  What  a 
crovid  of  vivid,  rapid  images,  burst  in  upon  my  mind.  They 
would  not  suffer  me,  as  methinks  I  hear, 

"  Some  minstrel,  Jessy,  sing  or  say, 

"  To  bide  at  iiome, 

"  Abroad  to  roam, 

"  But  snatched  me,  from  myself,  a\vay. 

*'I  have  tranquilized  myself  enough  to  write  thus  far-t— To  tell 
thee  what  has  happened,  but  to  describe  my  feelings  now,  that  I 
liesurely  look  back  upon  these  incidents,  is  too  hard  a  task  for 
me.     Some  other  time,  I  shall  be  able.    To-morrow,  perhaps. 


169 

"  Bewitching  pen  !  I  can  scarcely  spare  thee  from  my  fingers 
while  I  sleep.  Night  has  become  more  tedious  since  I  have 
grown  accustomed  to  my  quill.  More  than  once,  I  had  like  to 
have  risen,  gotten  a  light,  and  scribbled  away  upon  my  pillow. 

*'  How  numerous,  how  troublesome,  said  a  neighbour,  are  the 
musquitoes  grown  of  late.  For  them  and  the  heat,  one  can 
scarcely  get  a  wink  of  sleep.  Don't  you  find  it  so,  Miss  Arnot  ? 
Last  night  especially. 

'*  Me  !  O  !  dear,  no.  Their  buzzing  and  their  stinging  vex 
not  me.  Last  night,  I  hardly  slept  a  xv'ink^  to  be  sure,  but  I  do 
not  thank  the  musquitoes  for  that. 

"  O  !  what  a  light,  what  a  bounding  heart  is  mine  !  It  would 
not  lie  still  long  enough  to  let  me  sleep."* 

I  shall  next  present  the  reader  with  a  fragment  which  I  shall 
call  "  Sketches  of  a  History  of  Carsol."  I  would  not  have 
presented  these  Sketches  until  later  in  the  work,  but  that  I  find 
them  already  selected  and  printed  for  this  part  of  the  first 
volume,  because  they  were  undoubtedly  written  by  Mr.  Brown, 
at  a  period  subsequent  to  that  of  which  I  am  now  treating, 
and  after  he  had  become  an  author  by  profession. 

Of  the  intention  of  the  author  in  these  Sketches  I  have  no 
definite  idea.  They  were  intended  doubtless  as  part  of  a 
great  work.  The  author's  love  for  Utopian  systems  appears 
in  them,  though  he  gives  his  work  very  much  the  air  of  real 
history. 

♦  In  a  few  instances,  the  Reader  will  find  that  in  the  preceding'  pag-es,  the 
rames  Julia  and  Sophia  are  indiscriminately  used 


99    * 


SKETCHES 

OF  A  HISTORY  OF  CARSOL. 

"  THE  funds  of  Carsol  amount  to  an  annual  payment  of  two 
and  an  half  million  of  ducats,  or  612,500/.  sterling.  They  con- 
sist of  shares  of  100  ducats  each  ;  the  number  of  shares  is,  con- 
sequently, 25,000.  Cards  of  the  shape  and  size  of  a  ducat,  the 
edges  hardened  by  a  species  of  glue,  represent  this  property,  and 
are  transferable  like  pieces  of  money.  The  production  of  the 
card,  at  the  proper  office  in  the  capital,  entitles  it  to  payment  five 
times  in  the  year,  of  twenty  dollars  at  a  time,  on  each  share.  As 
all  payments  are  recorded,  the  numbers  being  creditors,  pa}^- 
ments  may  be  declined,  and  the  money  left  to  accumulate.  This 
may  happen  in  consequence  of  the  loss  or  destruction  of  a  card  ,* 
of  the  absence  of  the  holder,  or  his  voluntary  reservation  of  the 
claim.  In  case  of  loss  or  destruction,  due  proof  will  be  received 
by  the  office,  and  new  cards  issued.  Old,  defaced  or  torn  cards 
may  be  renewed  at  pleasure. 

"  These  funds  have  various  advantages  over  the  public  funds 
of  other  nations.  They  are  transferable  without  form  or  trou- 
ble, in  any  part  of  the  world  ;  the  possession  of  the  card  being 
to  all  useful  purposes,  equivalent  to  that  of  coin.  They  are,  in 
one  respect,  better  than  coin,  because  the  loss  by  robbery,  mis- 
laying, miscarriage  or  otherwise,  may  be  repaired  by  proving  be- 
fore an  impartial  tribunal.  Those  who  are  desirous  of  further 
security,  may  lodge  them  in  the  bank  of  Carsol,  to  be  taken  out 
or  transferred,  only  by  their  signed  order. 

"  The  stability  of  the  government,  its  good  faith,  its  riches, 
its  exemption,  by  reason  of  its  wisdom,  energy  and  strength, 
from  foreign  molestation,  give  these  funds  a  vast  superiority 
over  others.     The  cheapness,  security  and  other  advantages  of  a 


171 

residence  in  Carsol,  where  these  funds  are  most  accessible,  con- 
tribute also  to  enhance  their  value.  The  occasional  commo- 
tions and  wars  of  the  neighbouring  nations,  and  the  convenient 
position  of  this  Island,  render  it  the  best  possible  for  persons  or 
property. 

"  The  value  of  these  funds,  or  their  price  in  exchange,  bears 
a  large  proportion  to  their  annual  produce.  This  proportion  va- 
ries with  the  circumstancesof  individuals  and  of  nations.  It  has 
never  sunk  below  one  hundred  to  two,  or  risen  above  one  hun- 
dred to  five.  So  that  the  smallest  value  of  the  funds,  or  the 
amount  of  the  principal,  of  which  the  annual  payments  may  be 
considered  as  the  interest,  is  1(X)0  ducats  or  twelve  and  an  half 
millions  sterling,  and  the  highest  value  has  been  12«5  millions  of 
ducats,  or  31  and  three  quarter  millions  sterling. 

"  These  funds  l^ve  been  reduced  to  their  present  state,  since 
1725,  that  is,  for  85  years.  Dividends  unclaimed  for  40  years, 
revert  to  the  state.  During  the  last  45,  the  average  of  annual 
reversions  has  been  about  25  shares,  or  2,500  ducats.  Much 
deliberation  has  taken  place  as  to  the  best  mode  of  appropriating 
these  reversions.  The  whole  amount  has  been  (up  to  1805) 
125,000;  which  gives  a  principal,  at  only  5  percent,  of  2,500,000 
ducats.  By  cancelling  the  cards,  the  annual  payment  would  be 
reduced  to  2,375  ducats.  Great  advantages,  however,  having 
been  found  to  arise  from  the  acceptance  of  these  funds,  they  have 
been  kept  unimpaired.  All  lasped  funds  are  granted  anew,  and 
as  their  lapse  must  necessarily  arise  from  the  misfortunes  of  pri- 
vate persons,  and  especially  of  strangers,  the  sovereign  has  or- 
dained that  they  shall  be  granted  gratuitously,  for  the  relief  of 
meritorious  individuals  of  foreign  nations.  Being  granted  in  an- 
nuities of  12,500  ducats,  (325/.  sterling)  it  follows  that  the  pre- 
sent number  of  such  annuitants  amounts  to  100. 

"  After  resolving  that  the  objects  of  this  bounty  should  be  fo- 
reigners, it  was  a  topic  of  much  reflection  to  settle  the  kind  of 
merits  or  services  to  be  thus  rewarded.  So  large  a  fund,  wisely 
dispersed,  could  not  fail  to  produce  considerable  effects. 

"  These  stocks  were  created  in  the  following  manner  :  The 
hrst  Arthur,  in  order  to  acquire  the  whole  landed  property  of  the 
Island,  offered  the  proprietors  a  sum,  in  the  fund  of  perpetual  an- 


172 

nuities,  equal  to  all  the  income  they  received  from  their  lands. 
This  offer  was  accepted  at  different  times,  by  the  whole  body  of 
proprietors. 

*<  The  baronial  estates,  at  the  time  of  Arthur's  accession, 
were  entailed.  They  were  neither  liable  to  alienation,  testa- 
mentary disposal  or  forfeiture  for  debts,  except  during  the  life 
of  the  debtor. 

"  To  diffuse  throughout  the  Island  their  agricultural  and  eco- 
nomical improvements,  of  which  he  had  become  enamoured,  the 
prince  found  it  necessary  to  acquire  the  privileges  of  an  univer- 
sal landlord.  His  policy  consisted  in  obtaining  these,  with  the 
full  consent  of  the  owners.  This  was  effected  by  obtaining  a 
senatorial  law,  allowing  proprietors  to  alienate  their  lands;  and 
by  purchasing,  at  a  fair  price,  the  lands  thus  unfettered.  The 
improvements  immediately  adopted,  raised  the  rental  of  the 
land  from  1  to  15  ducats,  and  thus  easily  enabled  the  prince  to 
fulfil  his  contract.' 

"  The  new  property  being  of  a  volatile  and  transferable  na- 
ture, became  exposed  to  all  the  freaks  of  prodigality,  improvi- 
dence and  folly.  The  connection  between  the  nobles  and  their 
vassals,  being  thus  dissolved,  and  the  power  and  influence  thence 
accruing,  being  at  once  taken  from  the  ancient  barons,  and  in- 
vested in  the  prince,  the  barons  became  wholly  powerless  and 
insignificant,  and  the  prince  absolute  and  irresistible. 

*'  In  the  course  of  a  century  all  the  ancient  families,  except 
nine,  were  either  extinct  by  the  ordinary  accidents  of  nature,  or 
were  sunk  into  mediocrity  or  obscurity.  Pedigree  is  rather 
contemptible  than  venerable,  when  disjoined  from  wealth  and 
power. 

"  Nine  families  continued  unimpaired  in  their  wealth.  They 
changed  the  nature  of  their  property,  but  three  generations  suc- 
ceeded each  other,  endowed  with  a  sufficient  portion  of  discre- 
tion to  preserve  their  property  from  being  lessened,  and  in  some 
cases  to  augment  it.  These,  indeed,  had  sunk  from  turbulent 
and  ferocious  leaders  into  indolent  and  unambitious  gentlemen  ; 
eminent  for  their  softer  nature^  but  divested  of  ambition.  The 
descendants  of  these  families  were  sometimes  found  in  places  of 
profit  and  dignity,  but  tor  this  they  Avere  not  indebted  to  their 
family,  but  to  their  cnvn  personal  merits. 


173 

*'  The  ancient  senate  consisted  of  the  proprietors  of  land. 
Every  barony  was  entitled  to  one  seat.  The  proprietors  of  seve- 
ral baronies  could  therefore  nominate  as  many  members  as  there 
Avere  baronies  in  his  possession.  The  barons  or  their  proxies 
composed  the  Senatus  Laicus.  The  Senatus  Clericus  consist- 
ed of  the  archbishops,  bishops,  twenty  deans,  chosen  by  the 
deans  from  their  own  body,  and  110  curates,,  elected  by  that 
body  in  the  same  manner.  The  two  senates  assembled  annually 
during  the  last  week  of  the  year.  These  bodies  possessed  legis- 
lative powers  conjointly ;  the  deliberations  of  the  latter,  being 
confined  to  ecclesiastical  affairs,  and  all  its  decrees  requiring  the 
concuiTence  of  the  Laical  senate.  The  prince  has,  in  virtue  of 
his  property,  the  nomination  of  ten  senators.  The  boundaries 
of  the  respective  jurisdictions  of  these  bodies  ;  their  privileges 
and  methods  of  proceeding,  had  been  settled  and  sanctioned  by 
the  usage  of  four  centuries. 

*'  In  acquiring  the  whole  landed  property,  the  prince  would 
have  acquired  power  much  more  absolute  than  what  would  have 
arisen  from  the  mere  appointment  of  all  the  members  of  these 
two  senates.  This  right,  however,  would  have  followed  the  ac- 
quisition. As  all  laconial  estates  were  unalienable,  and  descend- 
ed only  to  lineal  or  collateral  heirs,  the  possessions  of  the  prince 
would  naturally  be  augmented  by  these  accidents,  which  occa- 
sioned the  extinction  of  families.  Princes,  however,  instead  of 
increasing  their  demesne,  were  found,  in  all  ages,  much  more 
disposed  to  diminish  it.  All  the  lands  accruing  to  them  by  es- 
cheat or  forfeiture,  they  were  sure  to  regrant,  sooner  or  later,  on 
the  ancient  terms  to  their  favourites,  and  they  were  prevented 
only  by  the  strictest  laws,  from  impairing  their  original  patri- 
mony. Grants  of  the  original  demesne,  were  in  fact  only  dur- 
ing the  life  of  the  prince  granting. 

'•'  By  a  project  which  converted  all  the  barons  into  mere 
holders  of  stock,  this  constitution  was  subverted,  unless  some 
special  measures  were  employed  to  preserve  it.  Bv  an  express 
law,  the  baron's  right  to  form  a  constituent  part  of  the  senate, 
was  declared  to  be  inherent  in  his  person,  and  descendible  to 
his  heirs,  in  the  same  manner  as  his  barony  formerly  was.  Bv 
this  law,  he  was  enabled  to  part  with  nothing  but  the  rights  and 
profits  of  a  mere  landlord. 


174 

"  The  extinction  of  some  families,  the  poverty  and  ignominy, 
or  emigration,  of  others,  the  loss,  by  all,  of  that  influence  which 
proceeds  from  territorial  possessions,  very  quickly  reduced  this 
senate  to  a  mere  nominal  assembly,  whose  decrees  were  con- 
trouled  or  dictated,  at  the  pleasure  of  the  prince.  Insensibly  the 
substance  changed,  while  the  name  continued,  and  the  Senatus 
Laicus  finally  became  a  council,  consisting  of  the  officers  of  the 
prince,  and  those  whom  his  patent  invested  with  this  privilege. 
Senator  became  a  personal  honour,  conferred  without  regard  to 
ancient  distinctions. 

<'As  to  the  Senatus  Clericus,  the  power  and  privileges  of  its 
members  were  connected  with  their  offices.  These  offices  were 
held  for  life,  upon  the  gift  originally  of  the  prince,  but  ultimately 
of  the  pope  and  the  dignitary  clergy,  archbishops,  and  bishops 
were  named  by  the  pope,  the  deans  by  the  bishops,  and  the  cu- 
rates by  the  bishops  jointly,  with  their  council  of  deans.  Thus 
stood  the  ecclesiastical  establishment  at  the  accession  of  the  Car- 
rlls.  As  in  all  ecclesiastical  appointments,  the  court  of  Rome 
had  nothing  but  revenue  and  influence  in  view- — the  benefices  of 
Carsol  were  almost  entirely  possessed  by  foreigners,  or  by  those 
who  resided  abroad.  These  performed  their  official  duties, 
whether  ecclesiastical  or  civil,  by  deputies,  whose  places  were 
sold  at  auction. 

"  The  convents,  in  like  manner,  were  originally  possessed  of 
the  power  of  naming  their  own  heads,  and  expending  their  own 
revenues.  In  process  of  time,  the  nomination  to  abbies,  with 
the  greater  part  of  their  revenues,  were  engrossed  by  the  arch- 
bishops, bishops  and  pope.  The  injurious  eflfects  of  this  system, 
the  venality,  tyranny  and  negligence  of  the  prelates  and  their  de- 
legates, may  be  easily  imagined.  The  continual  draining  away 
of  money,  was  of  ruinous  tendency.  The  administration  of  jus- 
lice,  among  the  vassals  of  the  clergy,  was  totally  neglected,  or 
perverted ;  poverty,  depopulation  and  depravity,  were  the  conse-r 
quences  of  this  system. 

"  The  revenue  drawn  from  this  Island  by  the  court  of  Rome, 
consisted  of  the  tythe  of  all  the  benefices,  for  the  first  year  after 
nomination  to  tliem,  of  innumerable  fees  and  perquisites,  of  the 
produce  of  the  sale  of  a  calendar  of  7  pages,  containing  the  year- 


175 

ly  festivals  ;  and  a  pontificial  indulgence  to  eat  flesh  on  Santa- 
besta's  day.  This  indulgence  was  a  simple  inscription  on  the 
last  page,  in  the  following  words  : 

"  Sanctissima  papa  dat  tibi  hoc  tenenti  libertatem  camem 
edendi  die  sanctae  vestse.  The  rest  of  its  pages  contained  four 
columns  each  ;  one  two  sets,  one  column  of  each  set  containing 
the  day  of  the  month,  and  the  other  the  festival,  of  which  there 
were  forty  in  the  year  answering  to  it. 

"  This  calender  was  annually  sent  from  Rome,  and  its  sale  and 
distribution  intrusted  to  a  special  minister,  resident  at  Carsol. 
From  him  they  were  purchased  by  the  quantity,  by  certain  ped- 
lars, who  made  it  their  business  to  carry  and  disperse  thera 
through  the  country.  It  was  easy  to  persuade  the  multitude  that 
it  was  a  meritorious  and  pious  act  to  purchase  these  calendars. 
The  clergy  easily  annexed  to  them  a  sanctity,  beyond  the  origi- 
nal design.  They  were  greedily  purchased  by  the  people,  and 
considered  as  a  sort  of  talisman,  the  influence  of  whose  presence 
was  beneficial  both  here  and  hereafter.  The  venders  of  this 
talisman  gradually  became  a  class  order,  partly  mercantile  and 
partly  apostolical,  and  who,  in  preaching  up  the  merits  of  their 
wares,  were  supposed  to  preach  up  religion.  They  consisted  of 
100  persons,  each  person  having  a  peculiar  district.  Through 
this  district,  to  every  house  in  it,  were  these  calendars  accustom- 
ed to  penetrate  during  the  last  three  months  in  every  year,  load- 
ed with  this  article.  The  average  number  annually  sold,  from 
1650  to  1680,  was  500,000.  The  price  to  the  wholesale  dealer 
was  a  quarter  of  a  ducat ;  to  the  last  purchaser,  an  unica  more, 
so  that  the  whole  produce  of  this  sale  is  about  580,340  Cr. 
from  which,  deducting  8,340  for  the  profits  of  the  immediate 
distributors,  &c.  10,000  ducats  for  the  expense  of  printing,  ma- 
terials and  transportation,  and  for  the  perquisites  of  the  secreta- 
ry of  calendars  and  his  officers,  there  is  left  to  the  papal  jtrea- 
sury,  the  enormous  sum  of  445,000  ducats.  This  calendar, 
paid  for  at  this  price,  is  the  only  book  dispersed  through  the 
country,  and  to  read  its  words  and  figures  is  the  greatest  as- 
tonishment of  the  whole  mass  of  peasantry. 

'<  The  profits  of  these  pedlars  were  about  equal  to  the  stipend 
of  a  village  curate.  They  were  considered  as  the  family  and 
under  the  particular  protection  of  the  legate. 


176 

**  The  benefit  resulting  from  such  emissaries,  the  service  of 
their  zeal,  eloquence  and  industry,  may  be  easily  imagined.  By 
this  plain  and  obvious  system,  the  legate  obtained  access,  easy, 
open  and  undisputed,  to  the  ear  and  family  of  every  individual 
in  the  whole  society.  These  pilgrims  served  as  collectors  of 
the  population,  which  was  calculated  only  from  the  data  af- 
forded by  their  sales. 

*'  Arthur  could  not  help  perceiving  that  the  sale  of  this  calen- 
dar was  an  abuse  of  the  popular  superstition  for  the  benefit  of 
idlers  and  strangers.  The  continual  abstraction  of  so  much 
money,  was  highly  injurious  to  the  nation,  whose  money  was 
thus  taken fjom  them,  in  exchange  for  a  book  which  only  nou- 
rished ignorance  and  folly.  To  annihilate  this  traffic  entirely,  to 
appropriate  the  money  to  his  ov.-n  use,  to  convert  the  zeal  and 
diligence  of  so  many  agents,  to  the  promotion  of  purposes  benefi- 
cial to  himself  and  his  people,  instead  of  contributing  to  uphold 
the  authority  and  enrich  the  minions  of  Rome,  were  the  projects 
which  Arthur  and  his  ministers  meditated. 

'<  These  were  delicate  and  arduous  schemes,  and  to  be  accom- 
plished only  by  the  most  cautious,  wary  and  addressful  mea- 
sures. The  great  evil  lay,  in  their  opinion,  not  in  drawing  so 
much  money  from  the  people,  nor  even  in  thus  continually  di- 
minishing the  circulating  medium,  but  in  omitting  so  advantage- 
ous a  means  of  contributing  to  the  real  instruction  of  the  people. 
Popular  prejudice,  which  does  not  bend  and  turn  at  the  will  of  a 
prince,  created  formidable  obstacles  to  any  change.  By  contract- 
ing with  the  pope  to  pay  in  advance,  the  full  amount  hitherto 
remitted  to  Rome,  the  prince  might  place  himself  in  the  office  of 
the  legate,  and  thus  acquire  that  minister's  authority  over  the 
calendaria.  No  objection  would  be  made  to  augmenting  the 
contents  of  this  publication,  provided  the  old  articles  v/ere  re- 
tained, and  nothing  should  appear  in  the  additions,  heretical  or 
impious. 

"  A  more  potent  engine  than  this,  over  popular  opinion,  can 
hardly  be  conceived.  Every  member  of  the  society  thought  it  a 
religious  duty  to  purchase  a  copy  of  this  work,  for  each  member 
of  his  family.  He  was  taught  to  believe  that  every  copy  had 
touched  the  hand,  and  received  the  express  benediction  of  the 
supreme  pontiff.     To  enhance  its  sanctity ,«the  boxes  containing 


177 

ihem,  were  carried  unopen  to  the  church  of  St.  Vesta,  in  solemn' 
and  magnificent  procession,  on  the  day  consecrated  as  her  birth- 
day. They  there  were  carried  through  her  chappel,  in  presence 
of  that  statue,  which  all  believed  to  have  been  marvellously  crea- 
ted by  her  express  words.  The  general  belief  was  that  this 
statue  became  animated  for  a  moment,  and  that  the  marble 
smiled  a  benediction  on  the  treasure  as  it  passed  before  her. 
Hence,  the  possession  of  this  book,  was  imagined  to  confer  an 
happy  existence  after  death,  and  in  no  small  degree  to  exempt 
frail  mortals  from  crimes  and  disasters,  even  upon  earth. 

"  By  such  irresistible  sanctions,  was  this  book  accompanied, 
and  the  compiler  therefore  was  sure  of  a  reverend  audience  to 
every  thing  he  chose  to  insert  in  it.  Its  contents  possessed  the 
most  sacred  recommendations,  not  only  of  the  prince,  but  of  the 
pope,  and  of  heaven  itself. 

"  The  prince  undertook  at  first  to  purchase  of  the  legate,  in 
quality  of  wholesale  dealer,  the  whole  impression  of  the  calendar. 
Tliis  was  an  offer  too  advantageous  to  be  rejected,  since  it  secur- 
ed the  payment  of  the  whole  sum,  at  once,  by  a  single  hand. 
Whereas  this  payment  was  formerly  made  by  a  numerous  com- 
pany, and  subjected  to  many  hazards  and  delays,  through  the 
knavery,  error  or  misfortune  of  the  pedlars. 

"  The  prince  next  turned  his  attention  to  the  pilgrims  (for  that 
was  the  name  assumed.)  He  flattered  them  by  his  praises  and 
attentions.  He  drew  closer  the  bands  of  their  fraternity,  bestow- 
ed upon  them  badges  and  privileges  of  little  importance  in  them- 
selves, but  gratifying  to  their  vanity,  and  assigned  recompenses 
and  gratuities  for  such  as  should  excel  their  fellows  in  diligence 
and  punctuality.     The  calendar  for  some  time  was  untouched. 

"  This  conduct  really  flowed  from  generosity  and  patrimony, 
but  the  pope,  the  clergy  and  the  people,  could  only  see  in  it  the 
impulses  of  a  most  orthodox  and  exemplary  piety.  The  grati- 
tude of  the  people  was  still  further  excited  by  a  reduction  in  the 
price  of  the  calendar,  of  two  or  three  unicos.  In  paying  the  an- 
cient price  to  the  pope,  and  demanding  less  from  the  people,  they 
could  see  nothing  but  the  sacrifice  of  his  personal  interest  in  the 
cause  of  piety  and  virtue. 

"  The  next  step  that  the  prince  adopted,  was  only  a  new  proof 
of  his  mercenary  considerations.  The  papal  barque  ladened  with 

9-'5 


^78 

the  calendar  of  the  ensuing  year,  was  fortunatel}^  for  his  views, 
and  probuble  with  his  connivance,  taken  on  her  passage  to  Car- 
sol,  by  a  Barbarian  corsair.  To  prepare  and  transmit  a  new 
impression,  was  attended  with  double  expense,  and  inconvenient 
delays.  On  these  circumstances  did  Arthur  build  a  new  appli- 
cation to  the  Roman  court,  requesting  that  the  calendar  should 
be  printed  v/ithin  the  Island.  Every  scruple  against  the  accept- 
ance of  the  offer  was  removed,  by  subjecting  the  copy  to  the 
inspection  and  revisal  of  the  pope  or  his  legate ;  and  bestowing 
the  pontifical  benediction  on  the  types  employed  on  the  work. 

*''  The  calendar,  as  has  been  said,  was  originally  distributed  by 
pedlars,  who  pursued  the  business  with  the  same  views  as  the  . 
itinerant  venders  of  any  other  article.  In  the  beginning  of  the 
sixteenth  century-,  an  enthusiast,  by  name  Mosca,  imagined  that 
so  pious  a  duty  ought  to  be  performed  gratuitously.  He  soon 
formed  a  society,  by  which  the  old  pedlars  were  supplanted. 
This  fraternity  engaged  to  distribute  the  calendars  at  the  prime 
cost,  and  to  owe  ail  additional  payment  to  spontaneous  charity. 
This  was  a  new  mendicant  order,  who,  with  regard  to  the  pur- 
chasers of  the  calendar,  were  exactly  like  their  predecessors  ; 
since,  as  the  labourer  was  worthy  of  his  hire,  and  those  who 
could  pay  fifteen  unicos,  were  generally  able  to  add  the  six- 
teenth ;  the  new  carrier  was  paid,  upon  the  whole,  as  well  or 
better  than  the  former  one,  and  custom  soon  converted  the  gra- 
tuitous donation  into  a  stated  price. 

*'The  pilgrims  or  moscatize,  being  devoted  by  their  vows  to 
a  vagabond  life,  became,  in  process  of  time,  exceedingly  corrupt 
and  profligate.  The  head  of  the  order  was  obliged  to  calculate 
with  accuracy,  and  manage  their  common  funds  with  order,  since 
the  privilege  of  selling  the  calendar  depended  on  their  punctually 
fulfilhng  their  contracts  with  the  papal  agents.  But  it  was  the 
business  of  the  underlings  to  make  their  gains  as  great  as  possi- 
ble. Thus  they  were  authorized,  by  custom,  to  refuse  any  price 
which  did  not  include  at  least  one  surplus  iinko^  and  all  their  ad- 
dress and  eloquence  was  exercised  to  augment  this  charitable 
dole. 

"This  vagabond,  depraved  and  lying  order  of  itinerants  be- 
came subjected,  by  his  new  arrangements,  to  the  absolute  controul 
of  the  prince.     The  pope  was  by  no  means  insensible  to  the 


179 

abuses  that  had  crept  into  this  body,  and  his  own  interest  being 
nowise  promoted  by  these  disorders,  he  readily  consented  to  con- 
stitute Arthur  chief  of  the  order,  and  to  invest  him  with  the  office 
of  superintcndaiit  and  reformer.  Arthur  knew  full  well  the  im- 
portance of  accomplishing  his  point,  by  means,  slow,  gradual  and 
imperceptible.  He  dispaired  of  making  any  durable  impression 
on  the  existing  generation.  He  trusted  his  success  to  the  next. 
He  was  therefore  in  no  haste  to  make  material  changes  in  the  dis- 
cipline of  this  order.  The  members  of  it  were  suffered  to  pro- 
ceed pretty  much  in  their  customary  manner ;  but  as  these  mem- 
bers were  continually  removed  by  death,  his  vigilance  and  severity 
manifested  themselves  in  the  choice  of  new  members,  and  on  the 
conditions  imposed  upon  them.  These,  on  their  admission  into 
the  fraternity,  were  thoroughly  apprised  of  the  terms  of  this  ad- 
mission. They  voluntarily  and  knowingly  incurred  the  obliga- 
tions of  sobriety  and  honesty,  and  if  their  misconduct  drew  down 
punishment  upon  them,  there  was  nobody  to  pity  or  complain  on 
their  account.  The  people  in  general  were  fully  sensible  of  the 
former  abuses  of  this  institution,  and  regarded  him  who  removed 
them  as  a  public  benefactor. 

"  The  next  step  was  to  introduce  some  change  into  the  calen- 
dar itself.  A  task  of  no  small  difficulty.  The  legate  was  morose, 
suspicious,  fanatical.  Every  innovation  he  regarded  with  jea- 
lousy ;  and  it  was  soon  found  that  his  concurrence  was  hopeless. 
Instead  of  labouring  to  subdue  his  sovereign,  or  to  supplant  him 
in  his  post,  he  was  left  to  the  ordinary  influence  of  time.  In  a 
very  few  years  he  was  called  to  Rome,  to  occupy  a  more  con- 
spicuous station,  and  Arthur's  whole  influence  was  exerted  at 
that  court,  to  obtain  this  office  for  one  of  a  more  easy  and  ac- 
commodating temper. 

"  To  acquire  the  property  of  the  church  and  contentual  lands, 
was  a  task  not  quite  so  easy  as  that  of  supplanting  the  baronial 
order.  The  change,  with  regard  to  the  latter,  was  considered  as 
aff"ecting  the  very  vitals  of  religion 

"  It  it  true  that  Arthur  did  not  mean,  upon  the  whole,  to  im- 
pair the  ecclesiastical  revenues.  Neither  did  he  entertain  any 
immediate  views  of  cramping  their  authority  or  privileges. 
There  should  seem,  therefore,  no  visible  objection  to  a  schema 
which  should  change  the  nature,  without  lessening  the  amount 


18® 

of  the  church's  income,  and  which  should  leave  the  faith  of  the 
nation,  as  well  as  the  spiritual  immunities  of  the  clergy,  unaf- 
fected. 

"  Strenuous  efforts  were  employed  at  Rome,  to  obtain  the 
papal  sanction  or  permission  for  the  alienation  of  church  lands. 
These  efforts  were  unsuccessful. 

"  The  infinite  abuses  of  the  clerical  establishment  called 
aloud  for  a  cure.  What  cure  could  be  administered  ?  All  that 
was  desirable,  was  to  restore  the  ancient  discipline.  To  give 
the  monks  and  nuns  the  right  of  choosing  their  own  head  and 
members,  to  secure  to  them  the  use  of  their  own  revenue,  and  to 
oblige  them  to  conform  to  the  rules  of  their  pristine  institution, 
which,  though  obsolete,  had  never  been  repealed.  To  reinvest 
the  prince  with  the  nomination  of  the  prelates ;  to  oblige  these 
prelates  to  decide  within  their  dioceses,  and  perform  the  duties 
belonging  to  their  station  ;  to  prohibit  the  holding  of  more  than 
one  benefice  at  a  lime  ;  to  exact  the  due  qualifications  of  learn- 
ing and  virtue  from  the  deans  and  curates  ;  these  were  merely 
conformable  to  genuine  rules  of  right  discipline  ;  but  as  they  were 
at  open  war  with  the  pecuniary  interest  of  the  Roman  court,  and 
of  the  prelates,  what  measure  could  hope  to  be  successful  ? 

"  In  other  countries  the  reigning  faith,  with  all  its  appendages, 
has  been  overthrown  by  preaching  a  new  doctrine.  This,  though, 
sufficiently  desirable  in  itself,  could  not  be  effected  at  all,  in  the 
actual  condition  of  this  people,  or  could  not  be  effected,  without 
consummations  and  perils,  by  no  means  compensated  by  any  good 
that  could  flow  from  the  change. 

"  To  restore  things  to  their  ancient  condition,  by  the  mere  ex- 
ertion of  political  power,  would  be  a  danggrous  experiment,  and 
was  therefore  avoided.  Nothing  indeed  could  be  effected  with- 
out previously  moulding  the  public  opinion  into  a  conformity 
with  its  designs  ;  and  this  he  endeavoured  to  effect  by  causing  a 
book  to  be  written  and  published.  The  author  of  this  volume 
undertook  to  paint  the  actual  condition  of  the  Island,  in  the  times 
of  Charles  Martel,  as  to  ecclesiastical  affairs.  All  his  eloquence 
was  displayed  in  unfolding  and  adorning  his  subject.  The  times 
were  indirectly  held  up,  to  the  imitation  of  the  present  genera- 
tion, as  a  period  of  rectitude  and  purity,  by  being  described  from 
which  every  deviation  since,  had  been  criminal  and  pernicious; 


181 

He  particularly  dwelt  and  enlarged  upon  those  points,  in  which 
the  past  had  been  a  contrast  to  the  present,  and  by  assiduously 
depicting  the  benefits  that  flowed  from  the  ancient  system,  in 
those  points  that  had  since  fallen  into  disuse,  he  suggested  all  he 
wished,  without  appearing  to  design  it,  to  the  reader's  imagina- 
tion. That  is  vulgarly  considered  as  right,  which  is  ancient,  and 
the  earliest  institutions  are  most  sacred,  because  they  are  the 
earliest. 

"  All  reasonings  from  authority,  mounted  no  higher  than  the 
expulsion  of  the  Saracens  in  the  year  1300.  AH  the  reigning 
institutions,  ecclesiastical  and  civil,  took  their  origin  at  that  pe- 
riod, and  the  model  of  government  then  exhibited,  was  natural- 
ly regarded  as  the  criterion  of  justice  and  duty.  Arthur  desired 
to  bring  back  the  theory  of  the  Carsol  government,  to  that  pat- 
tern, though  he  intended  that  the  practice  of  it  should  bear  no 
resemblance  to  it.  In  these  views,  he  was  accidentally  befriend- 
ed by  the  personal  character  of  the  first  Charles,  in  which  valour 
and  military  conduct  was  combined  with  political  wisdom  and 
justice.  This  justified  the  advocate  in  painting  the  felicity  of 
the  nation,  at  that  period,  as  an  effect  of  the  mode  of  govern- 
ment, though  it  was  merely  or  principally  the  result  of  the  cha- 
racter of  the  prince. 

"  Charles  Martel  pretended  to  derive  his  descent  from  the  hero 
of  that  name  His  ancestor,  the  son  of  that  hero,  married  the 
heiress  of  Brittany,  and  was  invested  by  his  father  in  the  sove- 
reignty of  that  dutchy.  On  the  decline  of  his,  the  elder  branch, 
for  he  was  lineally  descended  from  a  younger  son  of  that  hero, 
the  Martels  withdrew^  to  a  small  patrimony,  situated  in  the  bo- 
som of  the  mountains,  from  whence  the  Garonne  on  one  side  and 
the  Rhone  on  the  other,  take  their  rise.  Here  they  resided,  in 
the  vale  or  lordship  of  Haac,  for  300  years.  Charles,  the  young- 
er brother  to  Arthur,  the  27th  duke  of  Brittany,  collected  a  lit- 
de  army  from  the  hills  of  Brittany,  and  invaded  Sardinia,  which 
was  at  that  time  under  the  dominion  of  the  Saracens.  The  eight 
sons  of  the  last  Saracen  prince  had  quarrelled  about  the  succes- 
sion. The  Island  had  been  wasted  for  six  years,  by  a  civil  war, 
in  which  the  bravest  of  the  Mahometan  militia  had  fallen.  The 
number  of  competitors  had  been  reduced  by  violent  deaths  to 
diree^    one  of  whom  had  sought  an  asylum  in  France,  while 


182 

th6  remaining  two,  still  hostile  and  Implacable  towards  each 
other,  divided  the  Isle,  somewhat  unequally  between  them.  De- 
giarba,  the  exile,  was  the  eldest  of  the  three  survivors ;  conse- 
quently his  hereditary  right  was  least  questionable. 

"  Charles  Murtel,  count  of  Haac,  was  made  captive  by  a  Sa- 
raceh  ship,  in  coming  from  Constantinople  to  Marseilles.  The 
captive  was  carried  into  a  Sardinian  port  and  sold.  He  was 
purchased  by  Degarba,  fourth  son  of  the  reigning  prince,  whoise 
temper  was  liberal  and  generous,  and  who  conceived  such  a  re- 
gard for  his  noble  slave,  as  to  give  him  his  liberty  without  ran- 
som, and  to  restore  him,  loaded  with  gifts  of  value,  to  his  native 
country. 

"  The  death  of  the  Sardinian  king  was  the  signal  of  civil  war 
among  his  sons.  Degarba  was  the  most  worthy  of  the  brothers, 
but  success  was  not  answerable  to  his  merit.  After  a  long  con- 
flict he  was  besieged  in  Carsol.  The  city  was  taken,  and  the 
prince  escaped  to  sea  in  a  small  boat.  He  passed  over  into 
Provence,  and  found  a  brotherly  asylum  in  the  grateful  lord  of 
Haac.  Degarba  was  of  a  gentle  and  pacific  disposition,  and  be- 
coming a  converted  Christian,  he  passed  the  rest  of  a  long  life  in 
a  cloister.  The  ambition  of  his  protector  was,  however,  inflamed 
by  the  councils  and  repi'escntations  of  the  fugitive,  who  drew 
such  a  picture  of  the  helpless  and  ruinous  condition  of  the  Island, 
that  Charles  determined  to  invade  it.  The  bulk  of  the  Carsol 
population  were  still  Christians,  from  whom  a  Christian  invader 
might  depend  upon  receiving  formidable  succour. 

"  Charles,  from  among  his  own  vassals,  formed  a  band  of  500 
brave,  faithful  and  enterprising  soldiers.  Thev  embarked  in  four 
vessels:  they  landed  without  opposition  on  the  northern  end  of 
the  Isle,  obtained  possession  of  a  very  strong,  but  unguarded 
post,  summoned  the  peasants  to  arms,  and  in  the  course  of  nine 
months  subdued  the  whole  Island. 

"  The  evils  of  war  and  misgovernment,  which  had  raged  for 
half  a  centur}^  had  reduced  a  very  flourishing  community  to  a 
very  low  condition.  On  Charles's  arrival,  the  population  did  not 
exceed  300,000  persons,  of  whom  about  one  third  were  Saracen- 
ic in  blood  or  religion.  The  rest  were  Christian,  and  chiefly 
composed  the  class  of  cultivators. 


183      . 

'*  Every  mussulman  was  armed,  and  hastened  to  oppose  the 
invader ;  but  their  skill,  courage  or  success,  bore  no  proportion 
to  their  numbers,  and  after  a  short,  but  destructive  contest,  in 
which  15,000  of  their  number  were  slain,  they  submitted  to  the 
yoke.  The  Hves,  liberties,  and,  in  some  degree,  the  properties 
of  the  remnant,  were  spared,  and  the  conqueror,  attended  by  only 
300  of  his  original  followers,  whom  the  war  had  spared,  took 
possession  of  the  crown  of  Carsol. 

"  He  divided  his  conquest  among  these  followers,  preserving 
to  himself  a  considerable  demesne,  and  various  marks  of  feudal 
preeminence. 

"Though  treated  by  the  prince  with  lenity  and  justice,  the 
mussulmen  inhabitants  provoked  by  the  oppression  of  their  form- 
er slaves,  or  instigated  by  ambition,  made  in  the  course  of  five 
years,  five  revolts.  In  suppressing  these,  the  lives  of  60,000 
persons,  among  the  rebels,  were  sacrificed.  Notwithstanding  so 
many  motives  to  vengeance  and  hatred,  the  first  Charles  refused 
to  exert  any  further  severity  than  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
maintain  his  power.  At  his  death,  which  was  caused  by  the 
poinard  of  a  Saracen,  whose  life  he  had  preserved  and  cherished, 
the  general  hatred  of  the  parties  broke  forth  without  restraint, 
and  almost  the  whole  Saracen  population  was  exterminated  by 
the  sword,  in  the  course  of  a  single  week.  A  few  thousands 
escaped  to  the  fastnesses  of  Rincan,  where  they  maintained 
themselves  against  an  incessant  war  of  ten  years,  with  the  fero- 
city of  wild  beasts.  The  number  was  then  reduced  to  eleven 
persons,  the  chief  of  whom  was  the  only  son  of  Degarba,  to 
whom,  with  his  follower,  an  amnesty  v.as  granted.  This  leader 
became  a  Christian  convert,  and  his  lineal  posterity  continues  to 
this  day.  They  forget  not,  nor  cease  to  value  themselves  upon 
their  descent  from  royalty.  Their  ancestor  was  taken  into  fa- 
vour by  the  prince,  and  married  the  prince's  favourite  sister. 

"  The  only  lineal  descendant  of  Degarba,  was,  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  a  female.  By  her  marriage  with  the  heir  of  the  king- 
dom, now  became  a  dutchy,  were  united  the  two  lines. 

"  Such  was  the  history  of  the  Martel  or  Haac  line,  which  end- 
ed, in  a  female,  in  1680.  By  the  marriage  of  this  heiress  to 
Arthur  Carrol,  a  third  son  of  Carrol,  lord  of  Hallo  way,  and  Lo- 


i      184 

dowick,  in  England,  a  new  line  was  established.  For  125  years, 
that  is,  from  1680  to  1805,  the  Island  has  been  governed  by  this 
Arthur  and  his  son. 

"  The  tendency  of-  this  work,  which  was  entitled  "  Carsola 
Restaurata,"  was  easily  suspected  by  the  clergy.  The  dispersion 
of  it  could  not  fail  of  being  injurious  to  their  interests.  They 
therefore  treated  the  publication  as  a  crime.  It  was  printed  in 
Holland,  and  the  whole  edition  was  imported  into  Carsol.  It 
was  written  in  Latin,  so  that  it  was  intelligible  only  to  that  part 
of  the  community,  who  were  instructed  in  that  language.  It  was 
intended  to  enlighten  that  class  of  society,  who  possessed  the  in- 
fluence resulting  from  rank,  office,  riches  and  profession. 

"  The  legate,  with  the  prelates  and  the  whole  Senatus  Clericus, 
published  a  solemn  decree,  in  which  they  stigmatized  this  book 
as  heretical  and  impious.  They  ordered  all  persons  who  pos- 
sessed it,  to  destroy  it  without  delay,  and  threatened  such  as 
were  convicted  of  having  it  in  keeping,  after  a  certain  day,  with 
condign  punishment.  In  doing  this,  the  clergy  did  not  trans- 
gress the  bounds  which  usage  had  assigned  to  their  jurisdiction. 
This  body  claimed  a  general  superintendance  over  religious  opi- 
nions, and  their  own  judgment  only  was  to  decide  upon  the  con- 
nection or  relation  which  any  narrative  or  doctrine  might  Dear  to 
the  sacred  code.  All  crimes  and  causes  of  ever}'  kind,  in  which 
a  clerical  person  was  party,  was  cognizable  only  by  the  spiritual 
tribunals  of  the  prelates.  Their  own  prisons  detained  the  cul- 
prit, and  their  own  officers  executed  the  sentence.  This  exclu- 
sive jurisdiction  was  likewise  maintained  over  all  kinds  of 
writings,  over  matrimonial  and  testamentary  affairs. 

"  This  decree  against  a  work  written  by  his  own  secret  direc- 
tions, placed  the  prince  and  his  counsellors  in  a  situation  of  some 
difficulty.  There  was  no  small  danger  in  openly  opposing  the 
execution  of  this  sentence.  In  some  respects  the  enmity  and 
consternation  of  the  clergy  were  advantageous,  since  the  dullest 
imderstanding  was  awakened  by  them,  to  the  true  meaning  and 
tendency  of  the  book,  and  since  curiosity  is  only  augmented  by 
the  obstacles  thrown  in  the  way  of  its  indulgence.  These  obsta- 
cles, in  the  present  case,  threatened  to  be  insurmountable,  and 
both  the  prudence  and  inclination  of  the  prince  compelled  him  to 


185 

elude  by  art  and  address,  rather  than  Ibrtibly  withstand  the  ob- 
noxious edict. 

"  This  book  meddled  not  with  the  speculative  doctrines  of 
the  reigning  religion.  It  proposed  no  change  in  ecclesiastical 
order  or  property.  By  making  the  prelates  depend  upon  the 
prince,  instead  of  the  pope,  it  merely  changed  the  source,  with- 
out diminishing  the  esteem  of  clerical  authority  or  privilege. 
By  restoring  the  old  conventual  system,  it  was  highly  favoura- 
ble to  the  monastic  orders.  It  was  beneficial  to  the  numerous 
class  of  curates,  by  opening  the-  way  to  their  advancement. 
When  all  benefices  should  be  conferred  by  the  native  prince, 
they  would  of  course  be  bestowed  upon  the  natives  of  the  coun- 
try. To  the  lay  inhabitants  of  Carsol,  it  was  highly  advan- 
tageous— first,  as  it  prevented  immense  sums  of  money  from 
being  annually  carried  abroad ;  secondly,  as  it  secured  prefer- 
ment in  the  church  to  those  of  their  kindred  and  posterity,  who 
devoted  themselves  to  the  church ;  and  thirdly,  as  a  faithful 
discharge  of  clerical  duty,  was  beneficial  to  morals  and  piet}''. 
To  the  pope,  and  to  the  foreign  beneficiaries  only,  it  was  the 
signal  of  destruction. 

*'  'I'his  anthematizing  decree  had  been  obtained,  chiefly  by 
the  influence  of  the  legate  and  archbishop,  before  the  disper- 
sion of  the  book.  Most  of  the  inferior  clergy  had  joined  in 
the  vote,  without  having  read  what  they  had  condemned,  and 
through  habitual  submission  to  the  head  of  their  own  body,  and 
to  the  representative  of  the  universal  head. 

"  The  real  author  of  the  work  was  no  other  than  the  senator 
and  minister  Pareiro,  who  had  been  named,  according  to  usage, 
his  agent  in  the  clericale,  but  whom  sickness  had  prevented 
from  attending,  when  the  subject  was  first  canvassed.  It  was 
resolved,  that,  in  that  assembly,  he  should  have  exerted  him- 
self against  the  decree,  but  this  accident  prevented  his  attend- 
ance. At  the  next  meeting,  however,  he  attended  and  proposed 
the  revocation  of  the  edict. 

**  The  clericale  was  composed  of  the  prelates  or  their  depu- 
ties, with  the  legate,  generally  a  foreign  bishop  at  the  head,  of 
twenty  representatives  of  deans,  and  as  many  of  the  curates. 
Among  the  twenty-five  monasteries,  thirteen  were  distinguish- 

24 


186 

ed  from  the  rest,  by  their  abbots,  enjoymg  seats  in  the  clericale. 
This  was  a  privilege  conferred  by  the  pope's  bull.  This 
assembly  then  consisted  of  seventy-five  members. 

**  The  reformation  in  the  sixteenth  centmy,  had  not  left  Car^ 
sol  entirely  unmolested.  In  the  year  1750,  some  enthusiasts 
of  the  neighbouring  continent  conceived  themselves  impelled 
by  a  divine  command,  to  visit  and  convert  Garsol.  They  were 
men  naturally  bold,  enterprizing  and  inflexible,  and  religious 
zeal  had  added  new  force  to  all  these  qualities.  A  bible,  care- 
fully concealed  in  their  baggage,  was  the  only  weapon  of  their 
meditated  w.-a-fare  against  the  peace  of  the  Island. 

"  Piero  Hecta,  a  native  of  the  Isle,  was  the  chief  of  these 
new  apostles.  He  was  a  fugitive  from  his  native  country,  in 
his  youth,  on  account  of  some  amorous  indiscretions.  He  set- 
tled at  Geneva,  and  his  ardent  temper  taking  a  religious  turn^ 
he  became  a  convict  to  Calricus  tenets,  and  gaining  over  eleven 
others,  equally  visionary  and  adventurous  as  himself,  they  ar- 
rived at  Carsol.  They  conducted  their  plot  with  uncommon 
caution  and  adroitness.  They  betook  themselves  to  the  most 
remote  districts  of  the  Island,  and  gaining  over  the  simple  and 
unlettered  curates,  they  spread  their  tenets  among  many  thou- 
sands before  they  attracted  the  notice  of  the  government. 

*'  The  reigning  duke,  though  smitten  with  a  passion  for  an- 
cient literature,  and  the  elegant  arts,  was  ardently  attached  to 
the  Romish  faith.  He  therefore  willingly  concurred  in  all  the 
measures  taken  by  the  ecclesiastical  power  to  suppress  the  new 
sect. 

"  The  Isle  had  hitherto  remained  so  free  from  religious  in- 
novation— Its  ignorance  had  so  thoroughly  secured  its  bigotry, 
that  the  ruling  powers  had  never  had  their  vigilance  awakened 
by  any  disturbance  or  novelty.  The  talents  of  Hecta  were 
formed  lor  conducting  revolutions.  This  enthusiasm  was  pro- 
bably sincere,  but  it  was  united  with  ambition,  and  all  his  ef- 
forts were  directed,  not  only  to  change  the  speculative  tenets  of 
his  followers,  but  to  make  them  implicit  slaves  of  his  will,  and 
tools  of  his  ambitious  purposes.  His  consummated  arts  kindled 
in  the  stupid,  vacant  and  hitherto  passive  souls  of  the  peasants 
of  Varingo,  a  fire  which  raged  to  the  destruction  of  every  thing 
formerly  held  sacred,  and  the  fierce  enthusiasm  he  had  roused, 


187 

he  was  able  to  controul  and  direct,  with  a  power  more  abso- 
lute than  had  ever  hitherto  been  exercised  in  this  part  of  the 
world. 

"  The  excesses  of  the  anabaptists  in  Germany  bore  a  striking- 
resemblance  to  the  scenes  acted  in  the  province  of  Varingo. 
So  cautiously  had  Hecta  conducted  himself,  and  with  so  much 
supineness  had  the  government  and  clergy  been  seized,  that 
Hecta  was  able  to  bring  into  the  field  a  body  of  2  or  3,000 
fanaticks,  armed  with  rude  spears  or  pikes,  and  animated  by  the 
lessons  of  destruction,  with  which  the  ancient  Jews  entered  Pa- 
lestine. The  prince,  the  nobles  and  the  clergy  armed  them- 
selves, and  a  religious  war  ensued,  which  terminated  in  the 
destruction  of  upwards  of  20,000  rebels,  and  the  conversion  of 
Varingo  into  a  solitary  desert.  These  commotions  were  not 
appeased,  in  less  than  seven  years,  and  cost  the  lives  of  30,000 
persons. 

"  The  reformations  thus  assumed  a  most  inauspicious  aspect 
to  the  people  of  Carsol.  The  stigma  of  heresy  is  always,  among 
orthodox  believers,  sufficiently  terrible,  but,  in  the  present  case, 
the  Carsolians  annexed  to  the  name  of  reformers,  the  utmost 
hatred  and  terror  that  can  be  ingendered  by  the  images  of  De- 
mons and  wild  beasts.  Their  own  experience  was  tlie  founda- 
tion of  their  religious  prejudices.  Their  attachment  to  their 
ancient  faith  acquired  new  strength  from  this  unsuccessful  and 
injudicious  attempt  to  shake  it.  One  hundred  and  fifty  years 
had  by  no  means  obliterated  the  memory  of  Hecta  and  his  ra- 
vages, and  the  clergy  were  thus  supplied,  from  their  own  history, 
with  the  most  cogent  arguments  against  the  earliest  approach 
of  religious  reformation. 

"  The  doctrine  of  the  "  Carsola  Restaurata"  resembled,  in 
some  points,  the  tenets  of  Hecta.  This  resemblance  was  in- 
dustriously remarked  by  the  clerical  declaimers,  and  a  revival  of 
the  same  calamities  vehemently  predicted  from  the  propagation 
of  these  impieties. 

"  After  the  suppression  of  Hecta's  rebellion,  the  clergy  were 
naturally  led  to  emplov  extraordinary  precautions  against  the 
return  of  similar  calamities.  The  two  senates  united  in  making 
the   most    vigorous  laws  againt  heresy,  and  a  tribunal  was 


ltJ8 

erected,  differing  little  in  its  nature  from  the  odious  inquisition, 
for  carrying  these  laws  into  effect. 

"  This  tribunal  consisted  of  one  judge,  ten  assistants,  ten 
messengers,  two  jailers  and  two  executioners.  The  judges 
•were  appointed  for  life,  by  the  archbishop,  with  the  concur- 
rence of  the  synod,  and  the  subordinate  officers  by  the  judges. 
This  tribunal  possessed  the  power  of  arresting,  trying  and 
punishing  all  persons  charged  with,  or  suspected  of  heresy. 
Their  proceedings  were  secret,  and  their  decisions  liable  to  no 
appeal  or  controul,  from  any  other  jurisdiction,  ecclesiastical 
or  civil. 

"  The  crime  of  heresy  was  very  vaguely  defended  by  the 
laws.  Any  deviation  from  the  prevailing  faith  and  practice, 
in  the  Island,  was  stigmatized  as  such,  and  the  Judges  of  the 
Convicata  (so  this  tribunal  was  afterwards  called)  were  allowed 
to  interpret  these  laws,  according  to  their  own  judgment.  The 
punishment  in  all  cases  was  capital,  and  the  sums  of  their 
proceeding,  and  the  rules  of  evidence  were  left  to  their  own 
discretion. 

"  A  tribunal  of  so  tremendous  a  nature,  so  secret  and  abso- 
lute in  its  proceedings,  bounded,  in  its  jurisdiction,  by  such 
vague  and  indefinite  limits,  and  wholly  independent  of  the  § 
civil  power,  could  owe  its  existence  only  to  the  ignorance, 
inexperience  and  supineness  of  the  prince  and  his  barons. 
The  outrages  of  Hecta,  had  produced  the  belief  that  the  most 
swift  and  energetic  measures  were  absolutely  necessary  to 
guard  against  their  recurrence,  and  as  the  Laics  were  sincerely 
attached  to  their  own  faith,  they  thought  too  much  could  not  be 
done  to  preserve  its  purity  inviolate.  They  were  not  aware  of 
the  abuses  to  which  such  an  institution  was  liable,  and  how  far 
the  powers,  entrusted  to  the  judges j  might  be  perverted  to  the 
gratification  of  their  own  resentments,  the  views  of  a  sanguina- 
ry faction,  or  the  separate  interest  of  the  clergy. 

"•  So  fiicndly  was  the  reigning  duke  to  this  new  establish- 
ment, that  he  bestowed  on  it  the  Tora  Letza,  as  a  place  of  trial, 
detention  and  execution.  The  synod,  in  concurrence  with  the 
senate,  and  tli'>  express   consent  of  the  archbishops,  conferred 


189 

ample  salaries  on  the  judges  and  officials,  payable  out  of  the 
archiepiscopal  revenues. 

"  The  judges,  first  appointed,  were  men  of  considerable  ca- 
pacity, and  the  system  they  adopted,  was  eminently  calculated 
to  accomplish  the  end  designed.  They  settled,  with  great  ac- 
curacy, the  qualifications  and  duties  of  the  various  officers,  their 
badges  and  distinctions,  with  the  methods  of  proceeding.  As 
this  system  was  adopted  for  the  preservation  of  religion,  all 
the  persons  connected  with  this  office,  were  impelled  by  pious 
impulses,  and  loaded  with  religious  obligations.  They  devoted 
themselves  to  the  sei-vice  of  this  tribunal,  during  their  lives,  to 
the  observance  of  secrecy  and  fidelity,  to  celibacy,  to  abstinence 
from  certain  meats  and  drinks,  and  to  unlimited  obedience.  In 
fine,  they  might  be  considered  as  forming  a  religious  order, 
whose  pmposes  were  similar  to  that  of  the  Jesuits  and  Domini 
cans,  though  the  means  adopted  for  effecting  this  purpose  were 
different. 

"  For  a  whole  century  this  tribunal  was  maintained  with  vi- 
gour, and  did  not  materially  deviate  from  the  end  of  its  institu- 
tion. Its  zeal  and  vigilance,  however,  was  perhaps,  on  many 
occasions,  superfluously  exerted. 

"  An  extreme  terror  of  heresy  and  infidelity  had  now  taken 
place  of  the  ancient  indifference.  A  kind  of  toleration  towards 
adverse  sects  had  till  now  been  allowed.  A  great  number  of 
Jews  had  been  found  in  the  Island,  at  the  invasion  of  the  Mar- 
tels.  The  temper  of  a  late  Saracen  prince  had  been  softened 
towards  that  nation,  by  the  influence  of  a  beautiful  Jewess, 
whom  he  had  made  his  mistress,  and  the  indulgences  allowed 
ihem  had  been  continued  by  the  successors  of  this  prince.  For 
half  a  century  this  unfortunate  people  had  been  treated  with 
more  lenity  in  Carsol  than  elsewhere,  and  their  numbers  and 
wealth  had  sensibly  increased  under  the  benign  sway  of  the 
Moslims.  In  the  contest  between  the  Saracens  and  Christians, 
the  Jews  had  naturally  sided  with  their  benefactors,  and  hearti- 
ly opposed  invaders,  from  whom  they  could  not  expect  the 
equitable  treatment  they  had  hitherto  enjoyed.  They  shared 
the  common  ruin,  and  after  the  power  of  the  new  comers  was 
fully  established,  both  Saracens  and  Jews  were  excluded  from 
the  Island,  under  pain  of  death. 


190 

"  This  rigorous  edict  had  never  been  repealed,  but  as  time 
wore  away  the  memory  of  ancient  disasters,  it  silently  fell  into 
oblivion.  Both  Jews  and  Turks,  induced  by  commercial  views, 
ventured  to  approach  the  interdicted  shores.  Their  presence 
excited  no  alarm  or  outrage,  and  these  obnoxious  people  even 
ventured  to  take  up  their  permanent  abode  in  the  towns  and 
sea-ports  of  Carsol.  The  Jews  principally  became  settlers,  and 
6  or  800  persons  of  that  nation  resided  in  the  Island,  at  the 
time  of  Hecta's  rebellion.  They  where  wholly  disconnected  with 
the  interests  or  enterprizes  of  that  arch -heretic,  but  the  new 
tribunal  began  to  suspect  that  the  indulgence  hitherto  extended 
to  infidels,  had  awakened  the  indignation  of  heaven,  and  had 
drawn  upon  the  Island  the  late  calamities  by  way  of  punish- 
ment. They  therefore  set  themselves  diligently  at  work  to 
purge  the  land  of  all  its  impurities. 

**  Those  crimes  which  consist  of  immediate  injuries  to  per- 
son and  property,  were  already  provided  against  by  civil  laws 
and  tribunals.  The  king's  judges  took  cognizance  of  these, 
except  in  cases  where  a  member  of  the  church  was  any  wise 
concerned.  Then  justice  was  administered  by  the  bishops  and 
their  deputies.  That  species  of  guilt,  which  consisted  in  abju- 
ring or  denying  those  limits  of  religion  which  formed  the  dis- 
tinction between  Christians  and  Mahometans,  was  properly 
cognizable  by  the  the  Episcopal  courts,  but  this  guilt  had  only 
hitherto  existed  in  the  persons  of  Jews  and  strangers,  by  whose 
impieties  the  whole  society  was  in  no  danger  of  being  infected. 
This  branch  of  Episcopal,  had  consequently  been  neglected,  and 
almost  forgotten. 

"  The  innovations  of  Luther  and  Calvin,  had  created  a  new 
list  of  offences,  and  that  general  power  vested  in  the  Episcopal 
tribunals,  rather  bj-  force  of  custom  than  of  law,  concerning 
heretics  and  infidels,  was  now  taken  from  them  and  be- 
stowed singly  and  entire  on  this  new  tribunal. 

'<  The  crimes  which  exposed  a  person  to  their  animadver- 
sion, was  not  any  more  a  breach  of  morality.  A  man  might 
calumniate  his  neighbour,  abuse  his  authority  as  parent,  hus- 
band or  guardian,  be  drunken,  idle,  lascivious,  prodigal  or 
miserlj^,  obscene  or  scurrilous  in  conversation,  dirty  or  indecent 


191 

in  his  dress,  food  or  habitation.  In  all  these,  and  similar  cases, 
his  only  punishment  was  in  the  disapprobation  of  his  neigh- 
bours, or  the  natural  consequences  of  fblly  and  imprudence,  as 
they  affected  his  ovvn  health,  comfort  or  reputation.  But  if  he 
directed  his  scurrility  against  any  member  of  the  church  j  if  he 
denied,  or  contravened,  in  speculation  or  in  practice,  the  autho- 
rity of  the  pope  and  the  clergy,  the  divine  truth  and  efficacy  of 
those  rites  and  ceremonials,  which  distinguished  the  Roman 
church  from  that  of  any  rival  or  hostile  sect,  he  was  liable  to 
punishment. 

"  To  enforce  the  laws,  forty  persons  were  commissioned,  to 
spend  their  lives,  in  traversing  the  district  allotted  to  each,  in 
watching  the  conduct  of  the  inhabitants,  and  carefully  noting 
any  thing  that  favoured  heresy  or  innovation.  They  made  pe- 
riodical reports  to  their  superiors,  and  were  themselves  sub- 
jected to  a  very  rigid  discipline.  They  were  selected  on  ac- 
count of  qualities  favourable  to  the  due  execution  of  their  office. 
Their  sobriety,  their  religious  zeal,  their  continence,  their  con- 
stitutional firmness  and  courage.  Their  discipline  commenced 
at  an  early  age,  and  their  capacity  and  integrity  were  tried  by 
painful  tests,  and  secured  by  tremendous  sanctions.  They  were 
bound  to  conceal  from  the  rest  of  mankind,  their  real  office  and 
character,  that  their  office  might  be  discharged  more  effectual- 
ly. Each  one  was  a  stranger  to  all  the  rest  of  his  fraternity, 
and  on  no  account  did  any  one  transgress  the  limits  assigned  to 
him,  and  though  he  might  have  frequent  occasion  to  traverse 
the  district  of  another,  he  never  exercised  his  inquisitive  func- 
tions, except  in  his  own. 

"  From  those  who  had  been  twenty  years  in  this  service,  ten 
were  selected  to  perform  the  duty  of  inspectors  over  the  rest. 
The  witnesses  were  all  known  to  their  particular  inspectors ; 
but  the  latter  were  wholly  unknown  to  the  former,  and  his  duty 
lay  in  watching  the  conduct  of  the  witnesses. 

"  When  any  person  was  denounced  by  the  witnesses,  the 
grounds  and  motives  of  the  accusation  were  explained  by  them 
to  the  judge,  who,  if  he  tliought  proper,  directed  an  officer, 
called  Captor^  to  arrest  the  culprit.  Of  these  captors  they  were 
ten,  whose  qualifications  and  duties  were  settled  and  prescribed 


192 

with  all  possible  vigour.  The  symbol  of  their  office,  displayed 
only  at  the  time  of  seizing  an  offender,  was  a  stamped  piece  of 
copper,  fastened  by  a  cord  round  their  waist. 

"  As  their  officers  were  punished  with  great  rigour,  for  any 
infraction  of  their  duty,  as  their  education  and  personal  quali- 
ties were  carefully  considered,  they  enjoyed  considerable  dis- 
tinctions and  advantages.  In  case  of  sickness  or  infirmity 
they  were  absolved  from  all  duty,  and  provided  with  an  ample 
maintenance.  They  were  bound  to  their  office  only  for  thirty 
years,  and  were  afterwards  dismissed  to  the  enjoyment  of  com- 
petence, credit  and  ease. 

*'  In  judging  criminals,  the  written  testimony  of  the  witness, 
and  the  personal  examination  of  the  judge,  was  the  only  evi- 
dence admitted.  Contrary  to  the  fashion  of  that  age,  torture 
was  excluded  from  the  process  of  this  tribunal.  One  of  its 
maxims  was,  that  it  is  better  for  a  score  of  innocent  persons 
to  suflfer  than  one  guilty  to  escape.  In  its  proceedings,  there 
was  a  marvellous  mixture  of  cruelty  and  lenity.  As  the  rites 
of  the  prevailing  religion  were  considered  as  divine  truths,  the 
belief  and  observance  of  which,  were  necessary  to  salvation,  it 
followed,  in  the  opinion  of  the  framer  of  this  system,  that  the 
most  sacred  duty  of  those  intrusted  with  power,  a  duty  most 
cogently  enjoyed  by  the  lovers  of  mankind,  was  to  extirpate 
cause  of  unbelief  or  deviation.  Every  human  means  being  em- 
ployed, to  secure  the  zeal  and  veracity  of  the  informers,  their 
testimony  was  admitted  without  scruple.  The  death  of  an  inno- 
cent, but  suspected,  person,  was  amply  justified,  provided  this 
death  was  exempted  from  needless  pain  or  apprehension,  since 
innocence  would  be  truly  distinguished  and  rewarded  in  the 
state  to  which  he  was  sent,  and  a  quiet  and  speedy  death  v';is 
to  such  a  one  rather  a  good  than  evil,  and  since  the  mischiefs  of 
heresy  are  so  numerous  and  so  lasting,  and  are  propagated  from 
such  minute  and  casually  dispersed  seeds,  the  system  of  caution 
and  prevention  cannot  be  carried  to  excess. 

"  In  pursuance  of  these  maxims,  the  fate  of  every  person  was 
decided  by  giving  the  order  to  arrest  him.  If  upon  subsequent 
examination  the  charge  was  established  or  confuted,  or  left  in 
doubt,  the  event  was  the  same.    The  accused  lost  his  life.    But 


193 

death  was  inflicted  on  the  innocent  or  doubtfully  guilty,  not  as 
one  meriting  such  punishment  on  his  own  account,  but  as  a 
victim  offered  at  the  shrine  of  the  public  welfare.  Where  the 
guilt  of  the  accused  was  established,  his  death  was  considered, 
not  strictly  as  a  punishment,  but  merely  as  the  act  of  consign- 
ing him  to  the  justice  and  mercy  of  the  Divine  Judge. 

"  On  entering  the  fatal  towers  of  Letra,  neither  menaces* 
privations  or  torments  awaited  the  criminal.  Examination  en- 
sued, in  which  a  full  account  of  his  conduct  in  general,  as  well 
as  in  relation  to  the  charge  of  heresy,  was  exacted  from  him, 
but  exacted  by  no  motive  of  fear.  These  were  repeated  and 
extended  as  long  as  was  deemed  proper,  and  the  unhappy  per- 
sons were  finally  enjoined  to  prepare  for  the  inevitable  lot. 
Every  spiritual  aid  was  given,  adapted  to  their  condition. 
They  were,  in  fine,  placed  as  much  as  possible  in  the  situation 
of  men  reduced  to  the  brink  of  the  grave,  by  an  ordinary  mala- 
dy, and  by  thus  annihilating  every  motive  which  prompts  men 
to  descend,  was  generally  obtained  from  them.  They  were 
taught  to  expect  a  death  without  agony,  but  the  form  it  was  to 
wear,  they  were  not  permitted  to  know.  They  died  in  conse- 
quence of  taking  a  potion,  which  wrapped  them  in  deadly,  but 
painless  slumber,  and  their  obsequies  were  performed  with  pe- 
culiar solemnity,  and  their  bodies  were  laid  in  deep  vaults,  be- 
neath the  castle. 

*'  In  a  country  where  civil  offences  were  frequently  punished 
by  beheading,  where  torture  was  inflicted  on  many  trivial  occa- 
sions, in  an  age  where  religious  differences  were  accustomed  to 
excite  the  most  outrageous  persecutions  and  bloody  animosities, 
the  system  adopted  by  this  tribunal,  will  hardly  be  credited. 
We  can  scarcely  imagine  by  what  course  of  education,  or  turn 
of  thought,  the  author  of  so  singular  and  unexampled  an  insti- 
tution, was  led  to  its  adoption. 

''  The  founder  of  this  system  was  JVIichael  Praya,  a  person 
equally  remarkable  for  his  learning,  piety  and  amiable  man- 
ners. He  had  acquired  an  eminent  skill  in  ancient  literature, 
but  his  attachments  to  these  pursuits  had  not  weakened  his  re- 
ligious zeal,  or  diverted  him  from  theological  studies.  He  was 
profoundly  versed  in  the  history  and  ordinances  of  the  Christian 
church,  and  had  signalized  his  zeal  and  learning  by  a  work  ii\ 

OCT 


194 

defence  of  the  Roman  creed.  In  this  work,  he  argued  with 
earnestness  and  '  eloquence,  but  with  more  mildness  and  can- 
dour, than  any  controversialist  of  that  age  had  displayed.  So 
great,  indeed,  had  been  his  candour,  that  the  zealots  overlook- 
ed the  eloquence  and  reasoning  of  his  book,  and  stigmatized 
his  charity  as  impious  and  heretical. 

"  He  was  a  native  of  Florence,  was  educated  at  Paris,  and  had 
been  taken  at  an  earlv  age,  into  the  service  of  the  Carsol  em- 
bassy, at  that  city.  Having  unfortunately  excited  the  ill  will  of 
the  French  minister,  he  thought  it  prudent  to  withdraw  to  Car- 
sol.  There  he  enjoyed  the  favour  of  the  prince,  and  was  a 
distinguished  member  of  the  literary  societies  at  this  court.  As 
he  advanced  in  life,  religion  absorbed  more  of  his  attention,  and 
he  obtained  leave  to  bury  himself,  with  a  few  of  his  compa- 
nions like  himself,  in  the  castle  of  Letza.  When  the  rebellion 
of  Hecta  was  extinguished,  and  the  attention  of  the  court  and 
clergy  was  directed  towards  the  proper  means  of  preventing  fu- 
ture evils  of  the  same  kind,  the  zeal  of  Praya  impelled  him  to 
transmit  from  his  gloomy  retreat,  the  proposal  of  a  separate  and 
powerful  tribunal  for  the  extirpation  of  heresy.  The  plan,  in 
its  general  outlines,  was  adopted,  and  Praya  was  named  the  su- 
preme judge  of  this  tribunal,  and  he  was  empowered  to  metho- 
dize and  regulate  the  system,  according  to  his  own  pleasure. 
He  then  produced  the  plan,  of  which  1  have  given  a  sketch,  and 
submitted  it  to  the  king  and  the  archbishop,  these  two  being 
empowered  to  sanction.  The  prince's  religious  zeal,  and  his 
constitutional  humanity,  were  both  gratified  by  the  plan,  and 
the  archbishop,  who  could  not  gain  the  royal  approbation  to  a 
scheme  that  should  be  more  conformable  to  the  example  given 
by  other  nations,  was  obliged  to  acquiesce. 

"  From  this  moment  Praya  devoted  his  life  to  the  execution 
of  his  plan.  He  continued  to  reside  at  Toro  Letza,  with  a 
family  of  ten  monks,  and  the  officers  of  his  tribunal.  Tiie  monks 
were  his  assessors  and  assistants,  and  performed  the  religious 
offices  requirtd  by  his  system.  For  fifty-seven  years  he  con- 
tinued to  administer  this  office,  and  died  at  ninety-three  years 
of  age. 

"  All  the  maxims  of  judicature,  and  the  spirit  with  which  it 
was  administered,  more  than  half  a  century,  originated  in  the 


195 

character  of  Praya.     His  wisdom  preserved  the  institution  from 
the   abuses  to  which  it  was  naturally  so  liable.     If  we  except 
the  injustice,  which  some  will  maintain  to  be  intei'woven  in  the 
very  nature  of  the  scheme,  it  was  chargeable  with  no  glaring 
iniquity.     The  virtue  of  the  supreme  judge  was  impregnable 
to  those  temptations  and  seductions,  employed  against  it  by  the 
interests  or  passions  of  the  great  and  powerful.     He  would  not 
suffer  his  sublime  office  to  be  made  a  tool  to  the  vengeance  or 
cupidity  of  nobles,   kings   or  priests.     He  kept  a  watchful  eye 
over  the  conduct  of  his  inferior  agents,   and  occasionally  em- 
ployed the  arduous  expedient  of  travelling  in  disguise  through 
the  whole  Island,  in  order  to  verify  the  testimony  of  his  spies. 
By  the  consummate  wisdom  with  which  his   system  was    di- 
gested, and  the  devotion  of  his  whole  time  and  talents  to  per- 
fect and  uphold  it,  he  acquired  a  reverence  from  his  own  offi- 
cers, and  from  the  people  in  general,  that  almost  mounted  to 
worship.     He  was  looked  up  to  as  one  possessing  preternatural 
powers,  and  whose  decrees  were  specially  dictated  by  heaven. 
The  lofty  and  inaccessible  walls  of  his  residence,  the  invisible 
majesty  in  which  he  lived,  the  utter  oblivion  which  involved  the 
fate  of  every  one  who  entered  these  gates,  the  mysterious  and 
unseen,  yet  in-esistible  energy  with  which  every  corner  of  the 
Island,  every  town  and  village,  and  almost  every  family,  were 
occasionally  visited  by  his  power,  combined  to  impress  the  po- 
pular imagination,  with  the  most  awful  dread,  both  of  the  tri- 
bunal and  of  him  whose  genius  and  authority  animated  it. 

"  One  is  struck  with  astonishment  at  beholding  so  omniscient 
a  scrutiny,  so  elaborate  a  system,  constructed  and  directed  to 
no  other  end  than  to  detect  and  punish  imaginary  crimes,  opi- 
nions relative  to  points  trifling  and  ridiculous,  or  absurd  and 
contradictory.  What  efficacy  would  a  system  like  this  possess, 
if  directed  against  the  genuine  crimes  by  which  human  society 
is  afflicted,  if  this  potent  engine  had  been  turned  against  the  in- 
numerable curses  of  fraud  and  violfnce  ?  How  could  they  have 
hoped  to  escape  detection  and  vengeance  ?  Place  a  king  at  the 
head  of  such  a  tribunal,  and  make  this  implicated  agency  sub- 
servient to  maintenance  of  public  order,  and  of  royal  authority, 
what  despotism  can  be  imagined  more  absolute  and  ii-resistible. 
*••  I  have  said  that  Prava's  first  attention  was  directed  to  the 


1$6 

banishment  of  Jews  and  infidels.  His  emissaries  furnished  hlu> 
with  an  exact  enumeration  and  list  of  these  unfortunate  persons. 
Each  of  them  then  received  a  positive  command  to  leave  the 
Island,  before  a  day  fixed.  Their  number  and  particular  cir- 
cumstances seemed  to  justify  this  milder  treatment ;  but  should 
they  remain  beyond  the  day,  they  were  to  be  buried  in  the  ca- 
verns of  Letza,  their  children,  of  an  unknown  age,  to  be  com- 
mitted to  Christian  care,  and  their  property  distributed  among 
the  poor. 

*'  The  Jews  had  hitherto  been  merely  tolerated  at  Carsol. 
They  had  not  been  allowed  to  hold  real  property,  they  were 
destitute  of  every  municipial  privilege,  their  persons  were  treat- 
ed contumeliously,  but  not  with  violence.  Their  contracts  had 
no  legal  validity,  and  were  supported  only  by  the  spontaneous 
equity  of  those  that  dealt  with  them.  The  consequence  of  this 
degradation  betrayed  itself  in  the  squalidness  of  their  appear- 
ance, the  knavery  of  their  conduct,  and  the  vileness  of  their 
pursuits.  They  were,  with  few  exceptions,  indigent  and  wretch- 
ed, and  to  cast  them  out  was  beneficial  to  the  whole.  Their 
vileness  was,  indeed,  produced  by  the  treatment  they  received, 
but  as  this  treatment  was  not  likely  to  change,  their  removal 
was  not  undesirable.  Praya,  however,  in  exiling  them,  was  in- 
fluenced by  an  imaginary  mandate  from  heaven,  obtained  and 
communicated  to  the  judge  by  St.  Vesta,  who  could  not  suf- 
fer her  peculiar  precincts  to  be  polluted  by  that  accursed 
race. 

"  This  unhappy  people  had  reason  to  believe  in  the  truth  of 
the  threats  pronounced  against  them  ;  but  most  of  them  were 
disabled  by  ignorance  from  choosing,  and  by  poverty  from 
seeking  a  suitable  asylum.  Their  consternation  and  dispair,  at 
a  blow  so  unexpected  and  severe,  made  them  still  more  help- 
less. The  justice  of  Praya,  which  sought  its  ends  by  means  the 
most  lenient,  somewhat  relieved  them  from  their  distress.  He 
prevailed  upon  the  king,  whpse  mild  temper  gladly  adopted  the 
expedient,  to  supply  them  with  vessels  to  convey  away,  in  safe- 
ty, and  in  due  season,  their  persons  and  property.  The  poor 
were  provided  gratis,  and  a  moderate  compensation  was  ex- 
acted from  the  rich.  Though  rigid  duty  compelled  Praya  to 
drive  them  away,  the  same  duty  required  him  to  make  the  sen- 


197 

tcnce  productive  of  the  least  possible  hardship  or  suffering.  He 
took  infinite  pains,  therefore,  to  facilitate  their  departure,  and  to 
prevent  any  from  remaining  behind,  to  encounter  the  penalty  of 
disobedience.  His  efforts  to  this  end,  however,  were  not  entire- 
ly successful.  Out  of  110  families  of  Jews,  97  only  were  col- 
lected on  the  appointed  day.  The  rest  disappeared  from  their 
customary  dwellings,  and  being  among  the  poorest  of  the  tribe, 
there  was  no  reason  to  imagine  they  had  found  themselves  a 
passage  elsewhere. 

"  To  rescue  these  wretches  from  all  temptation  to  stay  be- 
hind, they  were  not  allowed  to  elude  the  sentence,  by  abjuring, 
their  faith.  Praya  had  no  confidence  in  the  sincerity  of  vows 
made  in  circumstances  like  these.  To  admit  them  was,  he 
thought,  merely  to  propagate  enemies  and  hypocrites,  and 
it  was  far  more  eligible  to  fill  the  place  their  banishment  should 
leave  empty,  by  the  progeny  of  natives  and  Christians.  His 
emissaries,  therefore,  carefully  watched  their  motions,  marked 
the  places  to  which  they  removed,  and  following  them  thither, 
endeavoured  to  convince  them  that  concealment  in  the  country 
was  impossible,  and  a  ready  submission  to  their  fate,  their  truest 
interest. 

"  Notwithstanding  all  these  measures,  such  was  the  obsti- 
nate attachment  of  some,  to  their  present  country,  or  such 
their  dispair  of  making  any  change,  even  in  their  present  un- 
happy circumstances,  for  the  better,  that  upwards  of  fifty  per- 
sons, among  those  of  whom  previous  lists  had  been  formed, 
were  missing  on  the  day  of  embarkation. 

*'  These  ill-fated  persons  had  too  good  reason  to  repent  the 
resolution  they  had  made.  They  were  thenceforth  condemned 
to  a  life  of  perpetual  terror  and  disguise.  All  the  ordinary 
difficulties  of  procuring  a  subsistence,  were  multiplied  an  hun- 
dred fold  to  persons  in  their  situation.  To  leave  the  country 
became  thenceforth  as  difficult  as  it  had  before  been  easy.  Some 
of  them,  grown  desperate,  became  robbers  and  outlaws.  Some 
killed  themselves,  in  order  to  escape  their  miseries,  and  twen- 
ty-seven expired,  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  five  years,  in  the 
caverns  of  Letza.  Among  the  victims  of  this  tribunal,  during 
the  whole  period  of  Praya'.s  administration,  the  Jews  who  had 


198 

either  disobeyed  the  edict  of  expulsion,  or  whose  temerity  or 
ignorance  had  afterwards  brought  them  to  these  shores,  amount- 
ed in  the  whole,  to  157. 

"  Carsol  had  been  at  almost  uninterrupted  war  with  their 
Mahometan  neighbours,  since  the  expulsion  of  the  Saracens. 
A  war  provoked  by  so  many  mutual  injuries,  could  not  fail  of 
being  obstinate  and  sanguinary.  Their  mutual  hatred,  in  many 
cases,  extinguished  even  the  thirst  of  gain.  Those  were  often 
indiscriminately  slaughtered,  whose  services  or  ransoms  as 
captives  woidd  have  been  in  no  small  degree  profitable  to  their 
conquerors.  As  this  triumph  of  cruelty  over  avarice,  could  not 
be  uniform,  captives  were  frequently  brought  into  the  the  Island) 
and  either  retained  in  perpetual  slavery,  or  after  a  time  ex- 
changed for  Christian  captives  in  the  same  predicament,  or 
restored  for  a  ransom.  As  a  sincere  conversion  to  the  Chris- 
tian faith,  entitled  them  to  be  redeemed  by  a  fund,  formed  by 
a  charitable  fraternity  in  Carsol,  the  converts  had  been  nume- 
rous at  every  period,  and  they  and  their  posterity  wei-e  mingled 
with  the  people.  Those  who  continued  in  slaver}'',  were,  of 
necessity,  allowed  to  retain  their  own  faith,  but  every  public  rite 
or  ceremonial  was  prohibited.  When  the  nation  was  at  peace 
with  infidels,  their  merchants  were  suffered  to  enter  the  Island, 
but  the  first  act  of  hostility  was  generally  to  seize  the  property 
and  enslave  the  persons  of  the  strangers. 

"  The  number  of  Mahometans  in  Carsol,  whether  slaves  or 
freemen,  depended  on  the  revolutions  of  war  and  commerce, 
and  the  treatment  they  received,  depended  on  the  character  and 
interests  of  the  reigning  prince  and  his  officers.  At  no  time, 
hitherto,  had  it  been  a  capital  crime  for  captives  and  visitants  to 
retain  their  unchristian  tenets,  provided  they  made  not  public 
ostentation  of  them,  nor  were  guilty  of  any  wanton  insult  to 
the  true  religion. 

"  In  the  course  of  t\.-o  centuries  and  an  half,  there  had  not 
been  thirty  years,  taken  together,  of  peace  with  the  infidels. 
The  war  had  been  carried  on  either  by  contests  between  naval 
armaments  at  sea,  or  by  sudden  descents  upon  the  hostile  coast, 
the  devastation  of  cottages  and  villages,  and  the  death  or  cap- 
tivity of  their  inhabitants. 


199 

"  By  a  computation,  as  exact  as  the  nature  of  the  case  would 
admit,  it  appeared  that  from  the  total  subjection  of  the  Island, 
and  the  extirpation  of  the  native  Saracens,  in  1300,  till  the  ac- 
cession of  Alexandre  I,  in  1520  (during  which  period,  war 
with  some  of  the  Mahometan  nations  had  been  unintermitted) 
these  had  been  slain  or  made  captive,  at  an  average  yearly  of 
500  Carsolians,  of  which  300  suffered  at  sea,  or  on  the  enemies 
country,  and  the  rest  had  been  taken  or  destroyed  by  hostile  at- 
tacks within  the  Island. 

"The  injuries  inflicted  by  the  Carsolians,  in  their  turn,  con- 
siderably exceeded  the  same  proportion,  and  during  the  above 
period,  about  22,000  captives  had  successively  been  brought  in- 
to the  Island.  A  small  part  of  this  number  had  been  restored 
to  their  native  country.  About  a  tenth  part  of  them  had  been 
redeemed  by  the  fraternity  of  St.  Rhoda.  The  rest  had  been 
swept  away  by  brief  hardship,  or  the  ordinary  course  of  nature. 
The  posterity  of  the  converts  had  melted  down  into  the  com- 
mon mass.  The  averaged  number  of  Mahometan  slaves,  at  one 
time,  in  the  Island,  except  a  certain  period  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, was  about  500. 

"  In  the  rigorous  reign  of  Charles  VI  (1459—1487)  who  car- 
ried his  marine  power  to  a  more  formidable  height  than  any  of 
his  predecessors,  and  who  waged  a  most  destructive,  predatory 
war  on  the  coasts  of  Africa,  Lyria  and  Natolia,  the  number  of 
Mahometan's  was  greatly  increased.  In  revenge  for  these  as- 
saults, a  Turkish  armament  appeai-ed  upon  the  coast,  and  land- 
ed 20,000  soldiers.  As  this  invasion  had  been  long  menaced^ 
the  king  had  long  been  busy  in  military  preparation,  and  had 
been  able  to  arm  and  discipline  almost  every  male  inhabitant. 
The  slaves,  already  in  the  country,  exceeded  10,000  persons. 
Many  of  these  were  women  and  children,  but  about  6000  of  this 
number  were  of  the  robust  age  and  sex. 

"  It  had  never  been  the  Carsol  custom  to  man  their  gallies 
with  slaves.  The  captives  were  usually  brought  to  market  at 
Carsol,  and  sold  indiscriminately.  The  male  children  were 
trained  up  to  Christianity,  in  which  case  they  were  legally  free 
at  twenty-five  years  of  age.  The  females  were  purchased  for 
domestic  services,  and  particularly  as  waiting  maids  to  ladies. 
There  were  few  wealthv  or  noble  families  v.ithout  u  f:  male  do- 


200 

nicstic  of  this  kind.  The  females  easily  adopted  the  religion  ot 
their  masters,  but  their  servitude  was  perpetual,  unless  ended 
by  redemption  from  abroad,  to  which,  however,  their  becoming 
Christians,  was  a  legal  obstacle.  The  children  of  these  fe- 
males were  slaves,  whether  male  or  female,  till  25. 

"  The  destiny  of  male  captives,  was  as  different  as  the  cha- 
racter and  occupations  of  their  masters.  In  general  their  tasks 
were  severe,  and  their  treatment  harsh.  Every  master  enjoy- 
ed, by  law,  unlimited  power  over  his  slave,  and  might  even 
kill  him  with  impunity.  This  power,  so  liable  to  abuse,  was 
generally  abused.  Chains,  stripes,  scanty  fare,  rags  and  exces- 
sive labour,  was  commonly  the  lot  of  this  unhappy  race,  and 
those  efforts  of  dispair  and  revenge,  which  were  continually 
occurring  among  them,  were  punished  with  uncommon  rigour 
by  the  general  police. 

"  Till  this  period  there  had  never  been  any  general  insurrec- 
tion among  the  slaves.  Every  year,  a  score  or  two  of  fugi- 
tives, who  had  harboured  in  the  mountains,  and  who  preyed  up- 
on the  neighbouring  villages,  were  taken  and  subjected  to  some 
barbarous  punishment ;  but  now  the  sudden  increase  of  their 
numbers,  and  the  talents  of  one  man  among  them,  produced  a 
very  dangerous  commotion. 

'<  Achmet  Pruli  was  a  Syrian  by  birth,  and  had  been  taken 
by  a  Carsolian  ship,  when  a  child  of  four  years  old,  together 
with  his  family,  from  his  native  village,  on  the  coast.  Being  a 
remarkable  tall,  robust  and  resolute  figure,  he  was  taken  by  the 
reigning  prince  to  be  about  the  person  of  his  son,  afterwards 
Charles  VI.  His  education  was  naturally  supposed  to  hav^e  ef- 
faced all  the  impressions  of  his  infancy,  and  he  grew  up  into 
great  favour  and  distinction  with  his  prince.  A  bold,  frank, 
ingenious  mind,  was  supposed  to  be  combined,  in  him,  with 
gratitude,  fidelity  and  a  due  portion  of  Christian  zeal.  So  much 
confidence  was  placed  in  his  talents  and  integrity,  that  he  was 
at  length  intrusted  with  the  command  of  the  fortress  of  Larmi, 
in  which  were  laid  up  arms  for  10,000  men,  and  where  he  com- 
manded a  garrison  of  200  men. 

••'  Pruli  had  been  a  page  and  companion  to  the  young  prince^ 
by  whoni  he  had  always  been  treated  with  favour  and  distinction. 
The  only  disgust,  which  the  prince  had  ever  given  to  the  slave. 


201 

•riginated  iii  the  appearance  of  a  Greek  girl,  of  great  beauty, 
at  the  Carsol  market.  The  prince,  after  seeing  her  by  accident, 
had  determined  to  purchase  her,  but  not  having  the  price  in 
money  about  him,  and  the  seller  being  loath  to  part  with  his 
property,  without  the  money  in  possession,  he  engaged  to  re- 
turn with  the  sum  in  gold  at  a  fixed  time,  and  meanwhile  gave 
earnest  to  secure  the  bargain.  His  absence  was  prolonged  a 
few  hours  beyond  the  time  fixed  for  his  return,  by  an  unex- 
pected difficulty  in  procuring  the  money.  Having  surmounted 
the  obstacle,  he  hastened  to  complete  his  purchase,  but  the 
maid  was  already  sold  and  gone,  the  seller  having  concluded 
that  the  first  applicant  had  relinquished  his  intention. 

*'  Zelia,  the  name  of  the  maid,  was  a  Samian,  the  daughter 
of  a  noble  Greek  of  that  Island.  She  had  been  carried  off 
while  bathing  near  the  sea  shore,  by  a  Turkish  pirate,  who,  in 
his  way  to  a  Caramanian  port,  was  intercepted  and  taken  by 
a  Carsolian  galley,  who  had  brought  their  prize  to  the  Carsol 
market.  The  prince,  who  understood  Greek,  gathered  these 
particulars  from  her  own  lips,  and  his  love  and  humanity  at 
once  urged  him  to  make  her  his  own.  His  grief  and  venera- 
tion, on  finding  her  already  disposed  of,  was  quickly  alleviated 
by  discovering  that  Pruli  had  been  the  purchaser.  Pruli  was 
required  forthwith  to  give  her  up,  the  money  she  had  cost  be- 
ing returned  to  him. 

'*The  beauty  of  his  slave,  heightened  by  grace  and  modesty, 
had  inflamed  the  desires  of  Pruli,  then  in  the  flower  of  his  age, 
to  a  pitch  from  which  he  could  not  readily  reduce  them  at  the  bid- 
ding of  another.  He  made  every  effort  to  retain  his  purchase 
which  his  situation  would  allow,  but  being  finally  compelled  to 
resign  her,  the  disappointment  rankled  in  his  heart,  and  engen- 
dered an  inextinguishable  thirst  of  vengeance.  A  regard  to  his 
own  interest,  and  even  to  the  interests  of  this  revenge,  obliged 
him  to  feign  compliance  with  the  wishes  of  the  prince,  and  the 
latter,  ascribing  his  reluctance  to  the  attractions  of  the  beautiful 
slave,  and  his  ultimate  compliance  to  his  sentiments  of  gratitude 
and  duty,  his  regard  for  Pruli  was  rather  augmented  than  di- 
minished by  this  incident,  and  the  fortunate  slave  continued  to 
make  quick  advances  iiy:he  road  of  honour  and  fortune. 

2() 


202 

<'  The  morality  current  in  Carsol,  allowed  the  master  to  ex- 
act what  services  he  pleased  from  his  slave.  The  latter  lived 
for  no  end  but  the  gratification  of  the  former,  and  provided  no 
cruelty  was  wantonly  emploved,  there  was  no  bounds  to  the 
reasonable  demands  of  the  lord?  but  such  as  mere  physical  ca- 
pacities established.  The  female  slave  was  considered  as  per- 
forming her  mere  duty,  in  gratifying  her  master's  appetites,  and 
in  bringing  forth  and  nourishing  those  who  will  belong  to  him 
by  the  double  title  of  father  and  master.  Intercourse  with  the 
slave,  was  not  considered  as  interfering  with  the  rights  of  ma- 
trimony. No  moral,  nor  ecclesiastical,  nor  legal  cognizance  was 
taken  of  such  transactions. 

"  In  the  ardour  of  pillage,  the  Carsol  adventurer  seldom  dis- 
tinguished between  the  infidel  Turk  and  the  schismatic  Greek. 
The  Greeks  of  the  Turkish  provinces  were  treated  like  oxen 
and  sheep,  as  the  properties  of  enemies,  and  in  the  slave  mar- 
kets of  Carsol,  a  captive  of  one  nation  was  generally  disposed 
of  on  the  same  terms  as  one  of  the  other. 

"  Charles,  the  new  master  of  Zelia,  was  regarded  with  so 
much  tenderness  b}^  his  captive,  that  she  refused  the  liberty  he 
offered  her  of  returning  to  her  family  and  country,  and  adopting 
the  religion  of  Carsol,  she  was  advanced  to  most  of  the  privi- 
leges of  a  queen.  The  narrow  escape  which  she  had  from  the 
arms  of  the  quondam,  made  her  ever  afterwards  regard  him 
with  a  kind  of  horror,  at  which  his  pride  was  mortally  of- 
fended. 

"  In  this  state  of  mind  his  reflections  turned  upon  the  cir- 
cumstances of  his  birth.  Insensibly  he  laid  aside  all  the  feel- 
ings and  habits,  which  had  made  his  present  abode  as  dear  to 
him  as  the  place  of  his  nativity.  His  religion  hud  been  adopted 
without  reflection.  That  of  his  ancestors  was  too  convenient 
to  the  purposes  of  his  revenge,  and  he  found  no  difficulty  in  se- 
cretly reverting  to  it.  As  he  ruminated  on  his  darling  pur- 
pose, his  mind  gradurdly  enlarged  his  views,  and  he  began  to 
think  it  by  no  means  impossible  to  restore  the  Island  to  its  an- 
cient obedience  to  Mahomet,  and  to  make  the  cause  of  the 
true  religion,  instrumental  at  once  to  the  success  of  his  revenge 
and  his^ambition. 


203 

•'  When  Charles  the  Sixth  ascended  the  throne,  this  accom- 
plished dissembler  persuaded  him  to  send  him  on  a  secret  em- 
bassy, to  the  neM'  sultan  of  Constantinople.  He  there  negociat- 
cd  with  Mahomet  the  conquest  of  Carsol,  by  means  of  a  fo- 
reign invasion  and  domestic  insurrection.  'He  returned  to  ac- 
complish his  part  of  this  design,  and  obtained,  from  the  un- 
suspicious prince,  the  command  of  the  fort  of  Larmi. 

"  I  shall  nor  detail  the  various  arts  by  which  he  lulled  the 
prince  into  securit}^,  as  to  a  Turkish  invasion,  by  which  he  ex- 
cited the  hopes  of  the  slaves,  supplied  them  with  the  means  of 
exchanging  their  thoughts,  and  assembling,  concentrating  and 
arming  advantageousl}'  their  numbers. 

''  The  Turkish  ministry,  deceitful  and  treacherous  them- 
selves, were  always  suspicious  of  these  qualities  in  others. 
They  therefore  flattered  Pruli  with  assurances  of  formidable 
succour^  and  equipped  a  naval  armament,  which  was  to  appear 
upon  the  coast  of  Carsol  on  the  day  appointed.  They  intend- 
ed, however,  merely  to  show  themselves  and  retire,  as  this,  if 
Pruli  w^as  sincere,  would  be  a  signal  for  the  commencement  of 
rebellion,  and  though  this  rebellion,  unsupported,  could  not  fi- 
nally succeed,  yet  it  could  not  fail  of  doing  a  great  deal  of  mis- 
chief. If  Pruli  was  insincere,  or  any  accident  should  prevent 
the  insurrection,  their  prudent  reserve  would  expose  them  to  no 
risk,  and  the  navy  might  quietly  proceed  to  its  principal  ob- 
jects, Spain  and  Italy. 

'*  By  indefatigable  efforts,  by  consummated  address,  and  by  a 
fortunate  coincidence  of  events,  Pruli  conducted  his  designs  to 
execution.  The  arrival  of  the  Turkish  fleet  was  the  signal  for 
raising  arms,  and  fire  and  the  sword  began  to  deal  destruction 
in  every  corner. 

"  Five  thousand  men,  however  bold  and  desperate,  could  on- 
ly make  a  temporary  impression  on  an  Island,  containing  tea 
times  their  number,  able  to  bear  arms,  and  bearing  the  most 
vehement  animosity  towards  them.  After  a  memorable  strug- 
gle of  several  months,  the  rebellion  was  finally  extinguished  in 
the  blood  of  the  i-ebels  ;  but  not  till  hardy  ruffians  had  perpe- 
trated all  the  devastation  and  ruin  in  their  power.  A  remnant 
<5»f  TOO  shut  themselves  up  in   Larmi.     Here  they  underwent 


g04 

the  extremity  of  famine,  and  four  fifths  of  their  number  being 
cut  off  by  hunger  and  the  sword,  the  rest  salhed  forth  upon 
their  besiegers  and  were  entirely  slaughtered. 

*'  This  event  taught  the  Carsolians  the  danger  of  multiplying 
their  slaves,  and  for  some  time  this  salutary  terror  prevented 
the  admission  of  any  captives,  but  women  and  children.  Male 
captives,  of  a  mature  age,  were  taken  to  the  neighbouring  coun- 
tries. This  law,  however,  as  the  memory  of  the  servile  war 
began  to  vanish,,  fell  into  disuse,  and  slaves  of  all  ages  were  in- 
discriminately admitted.  No  general  disturbance  arose  from 
this  source,  in  consequence,  either  of  the  scarcity  of  such  reso- 
lute and  enterprising  spirits  as  Pruli,  or  of  the  rigid  police  to 
which  the  slaves  were  subjected. 

*'  It  was  the  policy  of  the  four  Alexanders  to  exempt  their 
kingdom  as  much  as  possible  from  war.  They  negotiated  a 
peace  with  the  Mahometans,  which  they  took  infinite  pains  to 
maintain  uninterrupted,  and  laboured  with  equal  assiduity  to 
avoid  embroiling  themselves  in  the  quarrels  and  dissensions  of 
the  Christian  princes.  In  both  these  designs,  they  had  very 
formidable  obstacles  to  encounter  in  the  intrigues  and  menaces 
of  their  neighbours.  They  succeeded  for  the  most  part  in  pre- 
serving this  neutrality,  especially  with  the  Pvloors  and  Othmans, 
and  consequently  their  stock  of  slaves  was  no  longer  maintain- 
ed or  augmented  from  the  usual  sources.  From  the  convenient 
position  of  Carsol,  it  was,  however,  much  resorted  to  by  the 
Maltese  and  other  Christian  corsairs,  till  this  traffic  was  pro- 
hibited by  the  second  Alexander. 

"  The  rigour  of  the  new  tribunal,  against  heresy  and  infideli- 
tyj  found  few  or  no  objects  in  the  enslaved  part  of  the  society. 
It,  however,  put  a  total  stop  to  the  clandestine  importation  of 
alaves,  which  the  civil  government  had  been  unable  or  unv/il- 
ling  to  prevent.  Though  the  terms  of  peace,  between  this 
kingdom  and  the  Mussulmen,  required  the  cessation  of  all  hos- 
tilities, it  had  been  impossible  wholly  to  prevent  the  natives  of 
Carsol  from  adventuring  under  foreign  commissions,  and  from 
bringing  their  spoil  into  the  Island.  And  as  long  as  this  indi- 
rect kind  of  v/ar  was  unsuspected  by  the  Turkish  or  Moorisii 
governments,  it  met  v;ith  the  connivance  of  the  Carsol.  The 
evils  of  slavery  were  somewhat  proportioned  to  the  number  of 


205 

slaves,  but  though  less  misery  arose  from  the  presence  of  200 
than  2000  slaves,  the  mischief,  even  in  the  former  case,  was  not 
small. 

"  It  appears  egregiously  unjust,  to  punish  men  for  adhering 
to  the  faith,  in  which  they  were  educated,  in  a  country  to  which 
they  are  brought  against  their  will.  The  proper  objects  of 
punishment  were  those  who,  in  bringing  them,  violated  at  once 
the  laws  of  their  native  country  and  of  humanitv ;  but  the  im- 
possibility, which  now  existed,  of  retaining  an  infidel  slave,  ef- 
fectually deterred  any  one  from  buying  him,  and  no  buyers  be- 
ing found  in  Carsol,  captives  were  carried  to  other  markets. 
Sanguinary  and  inhuman  as  this  system  appeared,  its  operation 
was  highly  salutary,  and  annihilated  at  once  all  the  mischiefs 
which  slaverv  produces.  This  general  tendency,  no  doubt,  re- 
commended their  measures  to  Praya,  but  his  chief  motive  for 
embracing  them  was  connected  with  religious  duty. 

"  The  adherents  to  the  Greek  and  Armenian  religions  were 
involved  in  the  common  sentence  against  unbelievers.  A  little 
colony  or  factory  of  the  latter  sect  or  nation,  had  inhabited  for 
many  years,  a  street  in  Carsol,  in  which  they  had  peaceably 
preserved  the  vocation  of  goldsmiths  and  merchants.  The  al- 
ternative of  exile  or  conversion,  was  not  refused  to  those  who 
already  bore  the  Christian  name,  nor  was  this  alternative  so 
hateful  to  such,  as  to  Mahometans.  The  greater  part  of  the 
Armenians  made  no  difficulty  in  seeking  the  bosom  of  the  Ca- 
tholic church,  and  the  rest,  who,  of  course,  were  there,  to  whom 
their  wealth  and  their  mercantile  resources,  and  connections, 
made  removal  no  dreadful  or  difficult  obligation,  sought  an  ha- 
bitation in  other  countries. 

<'  The  Greeks  who,  in  early  ages,  were  the  colonists  and  ci- 
vilizers  of  the  Island,  and  who,  in  subsequent  times,  were  its 
governors,  may  be  supposed  to  have  left  very  visible  traces  of 
their  language,  manners  and  religion  behind  them.  The  truth 
is,  that  in  the  province  of  Varingo,  the  whole  body  of  the 
peasantry,  and  of  the  lower  class,  were  of  Grecian  origin.  Pre- 
vious to  the  year  1301,  this  province,  at  all  times  mountainous, 
rocky  and  sterile,  was  principally  inhabited  by  Saracen  shep- 
herds.   These  shepherds,  hardy,  bigotted  and  warlike,  were  the' 


206 

most  prompt  and  activ  e  in  the  rebellions,  which  terminated  in 
the  extinction  of  the  whole  race.  By  these  commotions,  the 
whole  province  was  nearly  reduced  to  a  desert. 

*'  At  this  time  an  insurrection  took  place  in  Crete,  excited 
by  religious  persecution.  The  insurgents  were  headed  by  a 
kinsman  of  the  Martels,  who,  being  defeated  in  his  designs,  be- 
sought the  king  of  Carsol  to  grant  him  and  his  followers  an 
asylum  in  the  Island.  Their  petition  was  granted,  and  the  de- 
solate hills  of  Varingo  were  assigned  them  for  a  dwelling. 
About  500  persons  came  over  on  this  occasion.  They  insen- 
sibly multiplied  till  the  population  of  the  province  had  attained 
its  customary  level.  They  retained  their  language  and  reli- 
gion, but,  in  all  other  respects,  they  assimilated  v/ith  their 
neighbours  and  coalesced  into  one  nation. 

"  Hecta  was  a  Greek  of  Varingo,  and  his  countrymen  in  this 
district,  were  the  principal  converts  of  the  new  saints.  They 
shared  the  destruction  of  their  leader,  and  the  miserable  rem- 
nant of  the  colony  were  exposed  to  all  the  prejudices  of  the 
conquerors. 

*'  It  was  natural,  though  unreasonable,  to  ascribe  the  success 
of  Hecta's  impieties,  in  some  measure,  to  the  foreign  extrac- 
tion and  schismatical  education  of  the  people  of  Varingo.  The 
devout  were  not  disposed  to  maintain  that  the  calamities  lately 
suffered,  were  caused  by  the  wrath  of  the  deity  against  the  na- 
tion, for  endui'ing  the  presence  of  these  schismatics  so  long,  and 
the  new  zeal  which  their  calamities  had  awakened,  regarded  the 
Greeks  with  nearly  as  much  abhorrence  as  the  Mussulmen  and 
Calvinists. 

"  Hecta's  success  was  doubtless  owing  to  the  suspicions  and 
jealousies  continually  kept  alive,  by  the  difference  of  faith  be- 
tween the  Greeks  and  Latins.  The  former  were  regarded  by 
the  latter  as  aliens,  who  owed  their  original  admission  to  chari- 
iy,  and  the  evidence  of  whose  religion  was  an  indulgence  and 
not  a  right.  The  former,  insulated  by  their  mountains,  their 
language  and  their  faith,  were  naturally  led  to  regard  them- 
selves as  a  distinct  race,  with  interests  separate  from  those  of 
iheir  neighbours.  The  late  event  had  raised  an  insuperable  bar 
to  their  coalition,  and  the  new  tribunal  proclaimed  irreconcila- 
ble war  to  Greeks.     Varingo  was  peopled  anew,  by  the  Catho- 


207 

lies  of  the  neighbouring  provinces ;  the  few  survivors  of  the 
civil  war,  even  though  faithful  to  the  government,  were  com- 
pelled to  abjure  their  religion  or  leave  the  country,  and  no 
stranger  Greek  was  allowed  to  set  his  foot  within  the  Island. 
Among  the  victims  of  this  tribunal,  for  some  years  after  its  es- 
tablishment, a  few  incorrigible  or  adventurous  Greeks,  were 
annually  numbered,  but  they  insensibly  vanished  from  the  cata- 
logue. 

'*  While  such  is  the  nature  of  man,  that  diversities  in  reli- 
gious opinions,  though  merely  metaphysical  and  speculative, 
inevitably  generate  hostile  sentiments  among  them,  an  absolute 
uniformity  of  faith  is  highly  beneficial.  Uniformity,  even  in 
error,  in  points  that  have  little  or  no  connection  v/ith  practical 
or  social  duties,  is  better  than  dissension.  An  enlightened 
mind  may  not  recognize  the  influence  of  divine  truth,  in  the 
maxims  and  spirit  of  this  tribunal,  and  yet  if  religious  uniform- 
ity was  a  national  blessing,  and  if  the  means  adopted  were  the 
only  efficacious  means  to  produce  or  maintain  it,  they  must  be 
allowed  to  have  a  divine  sanction.  If  the  will  of  God  be  bene- 
ficence, they  who  pursue  the  good  of  mankind,  perform  that 
will,  and  since  nothing  would  have  given  birth  to  this  tribunal, 
but  such  pleas  and  such  pretexts  as  were  actually  used,  it  would 
perhaps  have  been  the  duty  of  Praya  to  have  feigned  the  belief 
which  he  avowed,  of  being  originally  stimulated  by  an  express 
revelation  (in  a  dream)  of  Santa  Vesta. 

"  Previous  to  Hecta's  rebellion,  this  little  kingdom  was  divi- 
ded among  several  religions.  Some  Protestants,  some  Arme- 
nians, some  Mahometans  and  some  Jews,  were  found  princi- 
pally in  the  cities.  In  the  fields  and  villages  were  discovered 
both  Catholics  and  Greeks.  The  people  were  further  distin- 
guished by  two  languages,  one  a  dialect  of  Greek,  and  the  other 
of  Latin.  They  were  likewise  divided  into  two  classes,  of 
freemen  and  slaves.  Twentv  years  after  Hecta's  rebellion,  all 
diversities  of  language  and  religion  had  entirely  vanished,  the 
distinction  betweea  freedom  and  servitude,  between  foreigner 
and  native,  among  residents,  with  all  the  jarrings  and  diversi- 
ties of  jurisdiction  flowing  from  this  motley  assemblage,  were 
no  more.  The  new  generation  were  as  flourishing  and  nume- 
rous as  the   former,  but  they  formed  one  bodv  infinitely  more 


^08 

compact  and  simple,  and  their  harmony  and  energy  bore  a  much 
greater  proportion  to  their  number,  than  at  any  former  pe- 
riod. 

"  Though  Praya  never  suffered  a  person,  arrested  and  brought 
to  Letza,  to  leave  these  walls  alive,  he  was  by  no  means  hasty 
in  taking  this  irrevocable  measure.  He  generally  afforded  the 
accused  the  alternative  of  banishment.  Though  not  suffered  to 
know  his  accuser,  or  to  repel  by  arguments  or  evidence,  the  ac- 
cusation, he  usually  received  a  secret  mandate  to  depart  the 
kingdom  forever.  In  issuing  this  mandate,  he  considered  the 
circumstances  of  the  culprit,  and  rendered  his  fate  as  easy  to 
him  as  the  great  ends  of  his  justice  would  admit. 

"  From  the  authority  of  this  tribunal,  no  one  was  exempted 
by  his  rank  or  profession.  The  king  and  the  archbishop  were 
equally  amenable  to  this  tribunal,  with  the  most  obscure  monk 
or  peasant.  In  the  laws,  by  which  it  was  created,  and  which  had 
received  the  solemn  and  unanimous  consent,  no  exceptions 
were  made  as  to  the  persons  subject  to  its  jurisdiction,  and  the 
crimes  committed  to  its  cognizance,  were  all  such  words, 
writings  or  actions  which,  in  the  opinion  of  the  judge,  were  di- 
rectly or  indirectly  injurious  to  the  Catholic  faith.  Of  the  pre- 
cise dogmas  of  this  faith,  he  alone  was  despotic  arbiter,  from 
whose  judgments  there  was  no  appeal.  In  this  manner  did  the 
whole  society  combine  to  put,  not  their  property,  reputation  or 
liberty,  but  their  lives,  into  the  hands  of  one  man.  This  man 
was  to  be  chosen  for  life,  by  three-fourths  of  the  whole  synod. 

"A  power,  thus  apparently  without  limits,  was,  however, 
bounded  by  those  invisible,  but  insuperable  hedges,  which  po- 
pular opinion  creates.  The  exact  nature  and  extent  of  these 
hedges  were  never  ascertained,  during  the  administration  of 
Praya.  His  wisdom  and  equity  was  cautious  never  to  overstep 
these  hedges,  nor  even  to  approach  them.  The  unbounded  ve- 
neration paid  to  his  personal  character,  the  awe  created  by  the 
mysterious  energy  of  his  proceedings,  and  the  long  duration  of 
his  life,  clothed  him,  in  the  apprehension  of  all  classes,  with  at- 
tributes next  to  divine,  and  allowed  him  to  stretch,  his  power 
further  than  any  other  individual  could  have  done  in  the  same 
nfdctt ;  but  these  very  circumstances,  by  giving  the  office  the 


209 

sanction  of  antiquity  and  usefulness,  could  not  fail  to  enlarge 
and  strengthen  the  authority  of  his  successors. 

"  There  are  several  instances  recorded,  which  show  the  pro- 
found, submission,  the  sacred  kind  of  awe,  in  which  this  insti- 
tution was  held.  After  long  experience  of  the  unalterable  na- 
ture of  its  proceedings,  its  mandates  came  to  be  obeyed  like 
those  of  a  physical  necessity.  No  one  ventured  to  dispute  the 
order  frequently  given  to  depart  the  Island.  Fear  even  stifled 
his  murmurs,  and  as  to  expostulate  was  vain,  despair  assumed 
the  appearance  of  resignation.  Many,  on  receiving  the  order 
of  arrest,  were  known  to  kill  themselves  immediately,  and  many 
expired  of  terror  before  they  reached  the  castle. 

"  The  sixteenth  century  was  distinguished  by  the  reign  of 
four  princes  in  succession,  by  the  name  of  Alexander.  Their 
characters  were  in  many  respects  uniform,  and  widely  different 
from  that  of  their  predecessors.  Their  policy  approached  more 
nearly  to  the  standard  of  political  wisdom.  They  were  emi- 
nently distinguished  by  their  love  of  literature  and  the  arts,  and 
signalized  their  devotion  to  the  muses,  by  a  more  uniform  and 
consistent  conduct,  than  the  Florentine  princes  of  the  preceding 
age  had  done.  In  their  conduct  towards  other  nations,  they 
showed  nothing  of  that  restless,  turbulent,  ambitious  spirit  so 
common  among  contemporary  princes.  To  maintain  peace, 
encourage  commerce  and  protect  the  arts,  was  the  motto  which 
they  chose,  and  their  maxims  they  carried  into  practice  with  n© 
sjmall  success. 

"  The  Turkish  empire,  which  was  rapidly  ascending  to  its 
zenith,  was  a  formidable  object  to  all  the  Christian  nations. 
The  Carsol  princes  maintained  inviolable  peace  with  that  pow- 
er. Zegim,  the  brother  of  Bajazet,  who  sought  refuge  in 
Rhoads,  and  was  thence  transferred  to  Carsol,  was  kept  in  cap^ 
tivity  till  his  death,  and  gave  these  princes  considerable  advan- 
tages in  their  negotiations  with  the  Turks.  This  took  place  in 
the  preceding  century, 

"  On  the  expulsion  of  the  knights  from  Rhoads,  the  first 
Alexander  gave  them  the  Island  of  Malta. 

"  I'he  Alexanders,  while  they  carefully  resisted  all  tempta- 
tations  and  allurements  to  enter  into  foreign  wars,  endeavoured 

to  secure  the  integrity  of  their  own  kingdom,  by  a  well  disci- 

or 


210 

pliuccl  and  militar)'  force,  and  by  raising  every  where  the  mosu 
impregnable  fortresses.  They  governed  the  baronial  aristocra- 
cy uith  great  energy  and  wisdom,  and  enjoyed  a  more  extensive 
power  than  had  been  known  before  in  this  Island.  They  labour- 
ed to  soften  and  humanize  the  manners  of  the  nobility,  to  collect 
them  about  the  court,  and  make  them  pliable  and  docile.  The 
nobles  were  deprived  of  some  of  their  most  injurious  preroga- 
tives, and  the  royal  authority  established  upon  a  deep,  though 
equitable  basis. 

"  They  revived  and  cherished  the  study  of  ancient  literature. 
The  Greek  and  Latin  writers  were  made  the  fashionable  ma- 
niials.  Painters,  sculptors,  architects,  musicians  and  poets,  were 
invited  and  cherished  by  pecuniary  and  honorary  rewards,  by 
learned  establishments  and  liberal  institutions. 

*'  Eleven  principal  cities,  including  the  capital,  were  walled 
round.  One  hundred  convents  were  rebuilt ;  one  hundred  ba- 
ronial castles  were  erected  ;  one  thousand  two  hundred  church- 
es were  built,  and  all  this  by  the  princes  themselves,  or  by  the 
imitative  spirit  of  the  people. 

*'  For  the  honour  and  defence  of  the  kingdom,  a  military  and 
religious  order  was  established,  into  which,  all  the  nobility  en- 
tered, and  which  subsisted  in  great  v  igour,  during  the  whole 
of  the  Alexandrian  period.  To  this  institution,  these  princes 
were  indebted  chiefly  for  the  stability  of  their  government  and 
the  refinement  which  took  place  in  the  manners  of  the  higher 
classes.  Laying  aside  the  system  of  mercenary  warfare,  prevar 
lent  among  the  neighbouring  nations,  honour,  religious  zeal, 
patriotism  and  personal  attachment  to  the  Alexandrian  family, 
and  to  the  head  of  the  ordt]-,  who  v/as  always  the  reigning 
prince,  were  made  the  ruling  passions  of  this  body  of  knights. 

"  7'he  similarity  in  sound,  iiuluces  the  dealers  in  etymologies 
to  dcriv'.-  the  name  of  Martil  from  I\lars,  the  god  of  battles. 
The  ingenious  flaiterv  of  poets  easily  created  a  pedigree  for  this 
line,  similar  to  that  of  Romulus  and  Remus,  and  the  descent 
of  this  family,  from  Charles  Martil,  of  the  eighth  century,  gave 
{hem,  in  the  opinion  of  their  enthusiastic  subjects,  a  right  to 
the  French  throne.  This,  however,  was  merely  an  antiquari-. 
,m  fancy,  and  formed  rather  to  gratify  a  visionary  pride,  than 
f.p  i?>fluencc  pqHc\'  or  conduct. 


211 

'*■  The  first  conqueror  of  Mallorca,  acquired  a  species  of  le- 
iigious  merit,  by  rescuing  the  Christians  of  the  Isle  from  the 
yoke  of  infidels.  He  was  naturally  regarded  as  a  kind  of  sa- 
viour, not  only  in  a  political,  but  also  in  a  spiritual  sense.  He 
was,  doubtless,  their  benefactor,  in  as  high  and  absolute  sense 
as  was  possible  for  mere  mortality  to  permit.  The  power  he 
acquired,  was  administered  with  wisdom,  justice  and  clemen- 
cy, and  his  character  must  extort  the  homage  of  every  impar- 
tial observer.  To  the  best  moral  and  political  qualities,  he 
added  personal  majesty,  strength  and  beauty,  such  as  the  sculp- 
tors of  old  imagined  to  be  characteristic  of  divinities.  Added 
to  this,  he  was  famous  for  his  Catholic  piety,  and  dying  by  the 
hand  of  those  whom  he  had  subdued  and  expelled,  he  was  na- 
turally placed  among  the  list  of  martyrs.  All  these  circum- 
stances combined  to  give  him  an  indisputable  title  to  the  honours 
of  a  saint,  and  as  such  he  was  worshipped  by  his  successors  and 
their  subjects.  His  churches,  reliques,  priests  and  miracles  oc- 
cupied a  considerable  space  in  the  worship  of  his  subjects.  His 
birth-day,  the  day  of  his  landing  in  the  Island,  and  the  day  of 
his  death,  were  among  the  most  holy  and  solemn  festivals. 

**  Among  twenty  convents,  eleven  were  possessed  by  a  mo- 
nastic order,  formed  a  few  years  after  his  death,  and  called,  af- 
ter him,  Carsolines.  The  number  of  monks  v/as  220.  They 
were  formed  to  perpetuate  and  sanctify  the  memory  and  ac- 
tions of  this  prince.  Nine  of  them  were  nunneries,  belonging 
to  the  same  order.  In  these  convents,  those  of  the  royal  fami- 
lies who  embraced  the  monastic  life,  took  refuge.  They  per- 
formed daily  one  mass  for  the  soul  of  St.  Charles.  Some  inci- 
dent in  his  life,  afforded  occasion  for  one  festival  at  least,  weekly, 
throughout  the  year.  To  each  of  these  festivals,  a  particular 
service,  consisting  of  hymns,  prayers  and  ceremonials  were 
adopted. 

"  These  institutions  originated  with  Alphonso  Martil,  fourth 
archbishop  of  Palma^  in  the  year  1333,  and  with  Agnes,  queen 
of  Mallorca,  in  1370.  The  nunneries  were  founded  by  the 
queen.  The  liberty  of  self  govei-nment,  was  originally  bestow- 
ed upon  all  these  institutions,  but  in  piocess  they  Ijecume  in- 
sensibly subjected  to  the  influence  and  controul  of  the  monaste- 
ries, of  the  successors  of  the   archbishop,  and  the   nunneries  of 


212 

those  of  the  queen.  To  appoint  the  heads  of  these  houses,  be-' 
eame  a  prerogative  of  the  reigning  queen  and  the  ruling  pre- 
late. 

"  Cuslem  had  given  the  force  of  a  fundamental  law,  to  the 
rule  that  the  archbishop  of  Palmo  should  be  filled  only  with  a 
priest  of  the  race  of  Martil,  and  that  the  kings  should  take 
their  consorts  only  from  that  branch  of  their  family,  which  were 
counts  of  Florae.  In  this  manner  the  purity  of  this  race,  and 
the  harmony  of  the  ecclesiastical  and  civil  administration  was 
preserved  in  a  remarkable  degree. 

'*  Persons  thus  set  apart,  for  the  express  purpose  of  adoring 
the  memory  of  the  first  Charles,  might  be  expected  to  cultivate 
the  virtues,  and  scrutinize  the  actions  of  their  chosen  divinity. 
These  institutions  might  be  imagined  peculiarly  favoural^le  to 
the  growth  of  virtues  and  talents  similar  to  his,  but  the  same 
circumstances  that  determined  how  far  Christians  resemble 
Christy  determined  the  resemblance  between  the  Carsolines  and 
him,  to  whom  they  owed  their  existence  and  their  name.  The 
duty  of  this  order  was,  not  to  imitate  his  conduct  as  a  general, 
a  king,  a  parent  or  a  citizen,  but  merely  to  estrange  themselves 
from  the  converse  of  mankind,  to  practice  abstinences  and  mor- 
tifications, to  perform  on  anniversaries,  processions  and  rites, 
symbolical  of  the  principal  events  of  his  life,  to  guard  his  con- 
secrated reliques,  and  to  chant  before  his  picture,  or  his  statue., 
hymns  and  prayers.  These  hymns  were  compt)sed  by  the  arch- 
bishop Alphonso,  in  Latin,  rude  in  st}'le,  but  not  without  some 
variety  and  energ)-  in  sentiment. 

*'  The  Alexanders  being  in  a  more  enlightened  age,  and  truly 
comprehending  the  merits  of  their  great  ancestor,  were  natural- 
ly led  to  wish  for  a  kind  of  homage  and  commemoration  v/orthy 
of  his  character.  Their  education  had  created  a  kind  of  politi- 
cal indifference  to  all  religions,  but  habit  and  a  warm  imagina- 
tion made  them  friendly  to  the  Catholic  worship,  which  is,  in 
many  respects,  so  faithful  a  resemblance  to  the  enchanting  su- 
perstition of  the  Greeks  and  Komans.  They  were,  therefore, 
by  policy  and  inclination,  though  not  b}'  principle,  its  strenuous 
patrons  and  adherents  ;  but  while  they  were  ardently  attached 
to  the  Raman  form  and  ritual,  they  were  anxious  to  exalt  and 


213 

adorn  them  by  infusing  into  them  a  spirit  and  classic  elegan.ce, 
more  worthy  of  themselves. 

*'  The  Carsoline  convents  were,  most  of  them,  153  years  old 
They  were  constructed  in  an  antiquated  style  of  architecture, 
chiefly  of  brick,  though  spacious  and  solemn,  had  no  preten- 
sions to  genuine  beaut}/  or  magnificence.  Many  of  them  were 
defaced  by  time,  or  mutilated  by  violence,  or  damaged  by  fire. 
The  only  literature  cherished  or  cultivated  in  them,  was  scho- 
lastic divinity,  the  history,  poetry  and  laws  of  the  middle  ages. 
Their  tenants  had  no  knowledge  beyond  the  boundaries  of 
Christianity,  and  the  prospects  opened  in  the  preceding  centu- 
ry-, into  the  ages  that  preceded  Constantine,  were  utterly  un- 
known to  them.  One  sacred  branch  of  their  duty  was  to  enable 
the  children  in  their  demesnes  to  read,  write  and  reason,  and  to 
initiate  some  of  them,  more  promising  than  others,  into  their 
Canonical  Latin,  and  into  the  substities  of  Scotus  and  Aquinas. 
From  the  latter  they  chose  their  own  successors.  To  be  mi- 
nutely versed  in  their  own  voluminous  breviary,  containing  no 
less  than  sixty  distinct  religious  offices,  was  an  arduou.s  attain- 
ment. To  have  these  by  rote,  to  be  thoroughly  familiar  with 
the  tedious  commentaries,  with  which  different  abbots  had  load- 
ed them,  and  to  be  severely  exemplary  in  every  monastic  du- 
ty, was  the  consummation  of  human  excellence. 

*'  One  department  in  these  houses,  consisted  in  keeping  a 
faithful  journal  of  all  domestic  transactions,  a  sort  of  chronicle, 
in  which  every  thing  connected  with  the  institution  was  care- 
fully recorded.  The  exact  degree  of  merit  in  these  chronicles, 
depended  somewhat  upon  the  natural  capacity  of  the  scribe. 
Their  extent  was  influenced  by  his  habits  of  observation  and 
industry,  but  being  limited  to  their  own  particular  affairs,  they 
could  seldom  be  of  any  general  importance  or  intrinsic  value. 

"  These  monks  rarely  looked,  for  subjects  of  history,  beyond 
the  limits  of  their  own  walls  or  demesnes.  This,  however,  v/as 
no  invariable  rite.  Some  among  them,  endowed  with  more  than 
ordinary  curiosity,  ventured  to  look  abroad,  and  as  they  Avere 
denied  all  intercourse  with  the  present  race  of  mankind,  they 
endeavoured,  by  means  of  books,  to  gain  some  knowledge  of 
the  past.  The  actions  of  their  peculiar  saint,  became  of  course 
a  principal  object  of  thei-r  attention. 


214 

*'  The  first  Charles  was  attended,  during  his  whole  lite,  by 
Nicholas  Kampsi,  a  sort  of  page  or  squire,  who,  after  the  death 
of  his  master,  and  in  his  old  age,  was  smitten  with  a  strong  de- 
sire of  narrating  his  history.  Kampsi,  till  sixty  years  of  age, 
could  neither  read  or  write,  but  then,  in  pursuit  of  this  new  de- 
sign, he  applied  with  so  much  diligence  to  letters,  that,  in  a 
short  time,  he  became  qualified  to  hold  a  pen.  This  remarka- 
ble person  must  have  been  naturally  endowed  with  very  strong 
powers  of  mind,  and  especially  with  a  memory  wonderfully  te- 
nacious. He  has  produced  a  very  artless  and  honest,  but  a 
most  picturesque  and  circumstantial  narrative  of  his  own  life 
and  that  of  his  master.  This  work  forms  one  of  the  most 
faithful  and  valuable  pictures  of  the  thirteenth  century  that  is 
extant. 

"  This  work  claimed  the  attention  of  the  monks.  It  was  care- 
fully transcribed  and  deposited  in  all  their  libraries,  and  was 
studied,  though  with  much  less  zeal  and  attention  than  another 
chronicle,  which  contained  the  spiritual  exploits  of  this  hero, 
before  and  after  his  death.  This  history  of  the  special  revela- 
tions made  from  heaven  in  his  favour,  and  of  the  miracles  per- 
formed at  his  tomb,  v/as  written  by  Salviati,  a  priest  whom 
Charles  brought  with  him  from  Palestine,  and  placed  in  his 
chapel  at  Florae.  These  works  afforded  principal  scope  to  the 
literary  curiosity,  the  pious  mediations,  and  the  elaborate  pen- 
manship of  Carsoline  monks  and  nuns.  Some  poetical  fathers 
had  added  to  the  narrative,  the  ornaments  of  verse,  and  had 
built  upon  it  ballads  and  epics  without  number.  It  was  sur- 
prizing how  voluminously  furnished  were  the  archives  or  libra- 
ries of  these  convents,  a  ccntiu-y  and  an  half  after  their  institu- 
tion. 

"  These  convents  were  rebuilt,  by  the  Alexanders,  on  a  new 
plan,  in  which  the  classical  spirit  of  the  architecture  was  dis- 
played on  a  most  ample  and  magnificent  scale.  Every  expedi- 
ent was  made  use  of  to  incorporate  the  taste,  language  and 
studies  of  the  Augustan  and  Pevelian  age,  with  the  education 
of  these  convents.  These  measures  being  pursued  indefatiga- 
bly  for  several  years,  a  total  revolution  finally  took  place  in 
these  establishments.  Music,  poetry,  sculpture  and  painting 
combined   their  powers   to   adorn  the   libraries,   gallaries   and 


215 

chapels  of  these  convents.  The  ancient  writers  began  to  be 
sought  after,  copied,  studied  and  imitated  with  enthusiasm.  A 
curtain  seemed  to  be  suddenly  lifted,  behind  M'hich,  the  scenes 
and  transactions  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  worlds  had  hitherto 
been  concealed.  The  new  born  spectacle  ravished  the  beholder 
with  surprise  and  delight,  and  to  examine  it  more  nearly,  to 
scrutinize  it  in  all  its  parts,  became  a  vehement  and  universal 
passion.  \ 

"  The  fruits  of  this  enthusiasm,  became  manifest,  in  the  fa- 
miliar use,  in  writing  and  conversation,  of  the  Latin  and  Greek 
languages,  in  all  their  purity.  Xenophon  and  Cicero  became 
the  manuals  of  the  monks  and  nuns,  as  well  as  of  courtiers  and 
ambassadors. 

*<  Innumerable  pens  aspired  to  imitate  these  pristine  models, 
and  in  history  and  poetry,  the  genius  of  Livy  and  Virgil  were 
reanimated,  and  exercised  those  themes  with  the  memorable 
revolutions  of  Mallarco.  This,  in  line,  was  the  golden  age  of 
JVIallorcan  literature. 

"  Under  the  auspices  of  the  two  first  Alexanders,  the  con- 
ventual modes  of  worship  underwent  various  reformations.  In- 
stead of  barbarous  homilies,  uncouth  rhymes  and  monotonous 
tones,  the  early  orators  and  fathers  of  the  church — hymns  writ- 
ten in  the  style  and  spirit  of  sublime  poetry,  and  polished  la- 
tinity  and  new  graces,  and  new  principles  of  music  were  gene- 
rally adopted  in  religious  service,  and  especially  in  that  of  the 
Carsoline  convents. 

'*  The  monastic  orders  in  this  Island  were  different  from  these 
established  in  any  other  country.  They  were  all  peculiar  to 
itself,  and  to  the  local  religion.  In  describing  the  religion  of 
a  Catholic  country,  it  is  not  sufficient  to  relate  the  ordinary 
tenets  of  the  Roman  Church.  The^e  tenets  allow  worship  to 
be  paid  to  persons  subordinate  to  the  divinity,  and  every  Ca- 
tholic nation,  city,  and  almost  every  individual,  has  a  peculiar 
object  of  worship.  The  modes  of  worship,  and  the  moral  and 
social  obligations  incumbent  on  the  pious,  are  diversified  with- 
out end,  and  the  bond  which  maintains  harmony  and  unity  be- 
tween such  multifarious  sects,  the  power  is  scarcely  visible. 
Thus  the  Deities,  which  receive  constant  worship  in  Car§ol,  are 


216 

totally  unknown  in  other  countries.     Their  festivals,  their  rites, 
their  hymns  and  the  duty  of  their  votaries,  were  in  almost  all 

respects  peculiar  to  the  Island. 

"  The  Deity  was  an  object  of  speculative  belief.  The  name 
of  Christ  was  familiar  to  all,  but  his  history  and  precepts  were 
known  only  to  a  few  scholars.  Little  else  than  the  mere  names 
of  the  primitive  disciples  and  apostles  were  known,  even  to 
deans  and  curates,  but  the  divinities  familiar  to  every  one's 
imagination,  whose  countenance  and  form  were  exhibited  in 
colours  and  marble  to  all  eyes,  the  visible  and  tangible  remains 
of  whose  terrestrial  bodies  lay  beneath  tombs,  to  which  all  had 
access,  were  the  first  founders  of  the  true  religion,  and  the  last 
restorer  of  it  in  Mallorca.  Churches  were  dedicated  to  these, 
prayers  were  addressed  to  them,  they  were  imagined  to  exist 
corporeally  in  an  higher  sphere,  to  have  their  attention  entirely 
engrossed  by  the  welfare  and  concerns  of  their  native  Isle,  to 
be  invested  by  God  with  a  delegated  superintendance  over  it, 
and  to  confer  every  benefit  which  the  nution  or  the  individual 
experienced.  Vows  and  petitions  were  exclusively  addressed 
to  them,  and  they  were  px-operly  the  objects  of  public  and  of 
private  gratitude. 

"  The  name  of  the  eldest  of  these  Deities  was  Clara  Vesta. 
She  was  the  only  daughter  of  the  last  Gi'eek  prince  of  the  Island, 
who  was  slain  by  a  band  of  Vandals  from  Spain.  The  great 
beauty  of  the  princess  preserved  her  from  the  common  ruin. 
After  many  trials,  to  which  her  sanctity  was  exposed,  she  be- 
came the  wife  of  the  Barbarian  prince,  and  the  mother  of  a  line 
of  princes,  who  maintained  their  throne  till  the  coming  of  the 
Saracens,  a  period  of  400  years. 

"  The  Christians  of  Carsol  owed  numberless  obligations  to 
this  princess.  B}^  her  jiowerful  influence,  she  checked  the 
«;anguinary  career  of  victory,  prevented  a  general  massacre  of 
all  the  natives,  and  converted  the  conqueror  himself,  from  an 
enemy  to  Christiana,  to  an  ardent  devotee.  After  the  death  of 
her  husband,  she  withdrew,  with  nine  daughters,  to  a  convent 
of  her  own  erecting,  and  which  continues  to  this  day.  There 
she  spent  a  long  life  in  devout  seclusion,  adored  by  the  Island- 
'■^rs,  wliom  she  continued  to  benefit  by  the  wholesome  councils 


217 

she  gave  to  the  princes,  her  posterity,  and  by  the  exercise  of 
prophetic  and  miraculous  powers. 

*'  The  general  facts  in  the  history  of  this  personage,  are  by 
no  means  improbable.  They  are  related  and  repeated  in  va- 
rious chronicles,  written  during  the  dominion  of  the  Vandals, 
and  which  accounts  were  preserved  amidst  the  devastations  of 
the  Saracen  government.  They  are  vividly  preserved  in  the  tra- 
ditionary tales  and  ditties  of  the  people,  who,  from  the  time  of 
her  death  to  our  own  age,  have  adored  her  as  their  tutelary 
Deity.  And  if,  as  some  pretend,  the  most  rational  religion  is 
that  which  consecrated  the  memory  of  public  benefactors,  Clara 
Vesta  may  justly  be  considered  as  deserving  of  divine  ho- 
nours. 

"  After  the  expulsion  of  the  Saracens,  the  honours  of  this 
Goddess  became  once  more  public  and  general.  Those  build- 
ings which,  from  churches  had  become  mosques,  were  restored 
to  their  ancient  title  and  Deities. 

*'  Clara  Vesta's  nine  daughters,  who  formed  her  original 
communities,  and  who  partook  of  the  maternal  sanctity  and 
glory,  became,  also,  objects  of  a  kind  of  secondary  worship. 
As  the  mother  was  the  general  Deity,  her  daughters  are  re- 
garded as  delegates  and  substitutes,  who  take  charge  of  parti- 
culars, orders,  communities,  cities,  villages  or  churches.  Each 
of  them  has  a  sphere,  determined  either  by  local  boundaries,  or 
by  distinction  in  rank,  employm.ent  or  profession,  in  which 
their  exclusive  guardianship  and  jurisdiction  is  acknowledged. 
This  celestial  beauty  is  supposed  to  bear  somewhat  more  than 
a  casual  relation  to  the  ecclesiastical  division,  into  ten  episco- 
pal dioceses,  and  while  the  archbishop  is  considered  as  a  kind 
of  visible  agent  or  minister,  of  Clara  Vesta  herself,  his  ten  suf- 
fragans are  looked  upon  as  the  agents  of  her  divine  daughters. 
The  names  of  these  daughters  offered,  perhaps,  some  proof  of 
their  authenticity,  since  they  are  all  of  Greek  origin — Sophia, 
Kloa,  Agnes,  Nika,  Rhoda,  Kopsa,  Helena,  Cassandra,  Mos- 
ca,  Lora. 

"  On  a  very  slender  basis,  afforded  by  true  history,  the  proli- 
fic fancy  of  those  who  imagined  the  creatures  of  mere  musing, 
or  slumber,  to  be  revelations  from  the  Deity,  or  who  belie%'ed 

-3B  '^ 


218 

that  falsehoods,  which  may  benefit  some  and  injure  no  one,  are 
allowable,  is  able  to  build  the  most  ponderous  and  complicated 
structures.  Thus  the  history  of  these  eleven  personages,  de- 
tailed with  the  most  minute  and  circumstantial  accuracy,  form- 
ed, for  many  ages,  the  favourite  reading  of  the  studious 
whether  lay  or  clerical.  Each  of  them  has  the  principal  events 
of  her  life  authenticated  by  reference  to  the  places  where  they 
happened.  Their  bones  are  still  preserved ;  many  relicks  of  their 
dress,  manuscripts  of  their  own  inditing,  their  countenance  and 
figure  are  all  preserved  ;  poets  have  celebrated  their  virtues, 
and  painters  displayed  their  portraits  and  actions  in  their  can- 
vass, sculptures  embody  them  in  brass  and  marble,  and  the 
populace  bestow  the  most  entire  belief  on  all  that  the  monastic 
libraries  relate  concei-ning  them. 

"  The  merit  connected  with  religious  seclusion,  produced  its 
natural  effects  in  this  Island.  During  the  fourteenth  century, 
more  than  ninety  convents  were  revived,  or  founded  by  those 
who  was  desirous  of  obtaining  divine  favour,  through  the  in- 
fluence of  St.  Vesta  and  her  daughters,  and  of  St.  Charles  Mar- 
tel.  To  these  twelve  divinities,  were  principally  dedicated  the 
services  of  these  various  orders.  At  the  accession  of  the  first 
Alexander  (1520)  there  were  seven  convents  of  the  order  of 
St.  Lora,  six  of  St.  Mosca,  eight  of  Cassandra,  eleven  of  Hele- 
na, three  of  Kopsa,  nine  of  Rhoda,  eight  of  Nika,  two  of  Ag- 
nes, three  of  Kloa,  and  seventeen  of  Sophia.  To  Clara  Vesta 
herself,  were  dedicated  fourteen  convents.  The  rules  of  these 
various  communities  varied  very  much  from  each  other,  and 
some  of  them  were  very  singular. 

"The  monastic  profession  always  implied  some  mortifica- 
tion or  self-denial.  Its  duties  were  either  positive  or  negative. 
The  latter  consisted  in  obligations  to  abstain  from  all  inter- 
course, even  social,  with  the  other  sex ;  from  all  artificial  li- 
quors :  and  from  flesh.  The  former  consisted  in  adhering  to 
a  certain  dress  and  dialect,  pursuing  certain  civil  employments 
and  performing  certain  religious  duties. 

"  The  daughteis  of  Vesta  were  frequently  denominated  nu- 
merically,  in  the  order  of  their  birth.  Thus  they  were  desig- 
nated by  the  appellation  of  Diva  Prima,  Secunda,  Tertia,  Quar- 


219 

ta,  Sexta,  Septlma,  Octava,  Nona  and  Decima.  Their  re- 
spective orders  were  sometimes  called  Primia,  Dinia,  Zer- 
via,   &c. 

"  The  severity  of  duty  was  not  equal  in  all  their  orders.  It 
was  the  heaviest  in  the  first  and  lightest  in  the  last. 

**  Each  house  was  governed  by  a  head,  who  held  this  situa- 
tion for  life,  was  originally  chosen  from  among  their  own  num- 
ber, by  the  members  of  the  house,  and  was  subject,  in  his  turn, 
to  a  common  head  or  chief,  who  held,  under  various  restric- 
tions, the  government  of  the  whole  order.  The  heads  of  the 
houses  were  Patres  or  Matres  :  the  head  of  order,  Patroni  or 
3Iatroni. 

'*  In  the  domestic  society  of  the  house,  between  its  members 
and  in  all  religious  offices,  and  in  fme,  on  all  occasions  whate- 
ver, no  language  was  allowed  to  be  used  but  the  Latin.  To 
speak  the  vulgar  tongue,  on  any  occasion,  v/as  an  offence  ri- 
gorouslv  prohibited.  The  head  of  the  order  was  exempt  from 
this  obligation,  and  he  was  empowered  to  exempt  others  from 
it  by  his  special  licence.  This  relaxation  was  dictated  by  obvi- 
ous necessity,  and  was  understood  to  extend  only  to  such 
cases. 

"  A  consequence  of  this  rule  was  that  to  all  conventical  peo- 
ple, this  language  became,  in  some  sort,  their  native  tongue. 
By  long  disuse,  both  in  reading  and  speaking,  the  language  of 
their  country  was  forgotten,  and  many  older  monks  and  nuns 
would  have  been  unable  to  profit  by  this  licence,  when  afforded 
them. 

"  From  certain  causes,  somewhat  peculiar  to  this  island,  the 
language  acquired  an  extraordinary  degree  of  sanctity.  The 
clergy  universally  considered  it  as  their  peculiar  dialect,  and 
adopted  the  use  of  it  in  writing  among  themselves,  as  a  privilege 
rather  than  a  duty. 

♦'  All  the  monastic  orders  were  limited  to  the  use  of  salt  and 
milk,  with  its  various  preparations,  meat,  and  water  to  drink. 
This  was  a  rule  common  to  them  all.  A  power  of  dispensing 
with  the  observance  of  it  was  lodged  in  the  patrons  or  matrons, 
with  regard  to  whom  this  singular  distinction  existed,  that, 
though  he  could  dispense  with  the  observance  of  general  rules 


220 

in  others,  his  own  obligation  to  adhere  to  tliem  was  unaltera- 
ble. This  expedient  was  probably  adopted  in  order  to  preserve 
the  head,  as  much  as  possible,  from  corruption,  and  to  prevent 
their  claims  upon  his  indulgence  which  might  be  built  upon  his 
own  example. 

"  The  only  material  allowed  in  their  dress  was  wool  among 
the  men,  and  cotton  among  the  women.  No  very  great  uni- 
formity existed  between  the  different  orders  with  regard  to  the 
texture,  shape,  or  colour  of  their  robes.  Among  females  it  was 
ordered  that  every  part  should  be  covered  but  the  head  and 
hands,  which  were  prohibited  from  ever  being  so.  The  female 
ornament  was  the  hair,  which  was  long  or  short,  and  flowing 
Or  constrained  according  to  special  customs  or  directions. 
Within  certain  limits,  the  conventical  was  at  liberty  to  consult 
inclination,  fashion,  taste,  or  convenience,  in  dress.  By  this 
rule  every  metallic  appendage,  ornamental  or  useful,  all  leather, 
cork,  and  all  cosmetic  articles  were  proscribed. 

'*  The  ten  orders  of  nuns  were  distinguished  by  the  colour  of 
their  dress.  White,  black,  rose,  yellow,  three  shades  of  blue, 
and  as  many  of  green.  All  mixtures  of  colours  were  prohibited 
to  the  white  and  black  nuns.  The  others  were  allowed  to  use 
white  provided  their  principal  upper  garment  was  of  the  pre- 
scribed hue. 

"  Though  there  were  no  pristine  or  fundamental  regulation, 
as  to  the  form  of  dress,  custom  and  particular  decrees  had  in- 
troduced a  peculiarity  and  uniformity  in  this  respect  between 
the  members  of  the  same  convent,  and  of  the  same  order.  Un- 
der the  Alexanders  taste  and  elegance  penetrated  even  the  re- 
cesses of  the  convents,  and  the  texture  and  fashion  of  monastic 
dress  manifested  great  improvement. 

*'  It  was  unlawful  for  nuns  or  monks  to  wear  garments  which 
were  not  entirely  manufactured  under  their  own  roofs.  The 
raw  wool  or  cotton  was  received,  and  their  own  hands  spun,_ 
wove,  dyed,  and  fashioned  the  cloth.  In  this  way  every  con- 
vent was  a  kind  of  manufactory,  the  overplus  of  whose  pro- 
ducts could  only  be  applied  in  charity. 

*'The  great  duty  of  these  societies  consisted  in  worshipping 
their  peculiar  deity.     This  worship  consisted,  in  the  first  place, 


221 

in  chanting  hymns  to  her  honour.  As  a  copious  legend  related 
the  acts  of  piety  and  heroism  ascribed  by  fancy  or  tradition,  to 
the  nymph,  these  hymns  found  sufficient  topics  in  their  acts : 
poetry  embellished  her  exploits  by  a  more  diffuse  narration  ;  by 
figures,  by  rhyme  and  by  numbers.  These  numbers  >vere 
adapted  to  vocal  and  instrumental  music,  but  being  originally 
constructed  in  the  infancy  of  learning,  taste,  and  the  arts, 
they  were  abundantly  meagre  and  rude.  The  conventical  po- 
etry and  music  was  not  wholly  unaffected  by  that  progress  in 
general  improvement  of  which  Carsol  partook,  in  common  with 
the  neighbouring  nations.  Under  the  Alexandrine  princes,  when 
the  inhabitants  of  convents  began  to  taste  all  the  treasures  of 
antiquity,  this  poetry  and  music  experienced  great  improve- 
ment. The  ancient  topics  and  distribution  of  topics  had  been 
made  sacred  by  time,  but  the  purest  latinity,  as  well  as  chast- 
est fancy  supplanted  the  ancient  dulness  and  sterility.  Music 
invented  new  principles  and  new  instruments,  and  sculpture 
called  the  figures  of  the  tutelary  power  out  of  marble. 

"  A  remarkable  peculiarity  of  the  Carsol  religion  was  the  con- 
demnation of  all  symbols  but  those  produced  by  statuary  and 
sculpture,  and  the  prohibition  of  wearing  any  material  for  these 
symbols  but  white  marble  or  porphyry.  The  history  of  this  pe- 
culiarity is  very  remarkable.  This  people  entertain  the  same 
conscientious  scruples  against  the  use  of  painting  or  music  in 
religious  worship,  and  against  the  use  of  any  stone  but  marble 
or  porphyry,  or  any  colour  but  white,  in  the  relievos  and  statua- 
ry of  their  altars,  as  protestants  or  mussulmen  do  against  any 
kind  of  picture  or  statue.  In  this  respect  they  seem  to  occupy 
a  middle  place  between  these  hostile  sects  and  the  Romish  sys- 
tem. 

"  Christianity  was  introduced  into  this  island  at  an  early  pe- 
riod. The  Carsol  historians  ascribe  this  blessing  to  the  minis- 
try of  Timon,  or  Timotheus,  mentioned  in  the  Epistles  of  St, 
Paul.  There  is  preserved,  in  the  Timothine  church  of  Teni- 
na,  an  ancient  parchment  said  to  be  an  epistle  of  Timotheus  to 
the  inhabitants  of  this  town,  where  he  is  universally  believed  to 
have  spent  his  old  age,  and  to  have  died.  The  bones  of  this 
saint  were  contained  in  a  tomb,  around  which  the  first  Christian 


church  was  built.  When  Tenina  was  taken  and  destroyed  by 
the  Saracens,  this  church,  whither  a  great  number  of  women 
and  children  had  taken  refuge,  was  burnt,  with  all  the  wretch- 
es it  contained.  Previous  to  the  entry  of  the  Saracens,  however, 
tradition  related  that  Telen,  the  bishop  of  the  place,  and  regu- 
lar successor  of  Tiniotheus,  opened  the  grave  of  the  saint,  and 
put  his  bones  into  a  small  stone  box.  With  this  treasure  in  his 
arms,  he  mounted  the  roof  of  the  church,  and  thence  was  con- 
veyed in  sight  of  the  whole  city,  by  a  band  of  angels,  to  the  re- 
cesses of  the  neighbouring  mountain. 

"  Felix,  it  seems,  had  persuaded  the  people  to  shut  their 
gates  against  their  enemy,  assuring  them  that  God  intended 
merely  to  try  their  faith  to  the  utmost,  and  provided  they  held 
out  firmly  to  the  last,  would  exert  a  miraculous  power  for  their 
preservation.  These  exhortations  enabled  them  to  make  an  ob- 
stinate resistance.  Famine,  disease,  and  the  sword  of  the  enemy 
at  length  vanquished  their  enthusiasm.  They  hearkened  to  fa- 
vourable terms  of  capitulation,  and  Felix,  finding  them  invinci- 
ble in  their  new  resolutions,  predicted  the  destruction  that 
would  follow,  and  declared  that  the  bones  of  their  deserted  pa- 
tron should  not  be  exposed  to  profanation.  His  predictions 
were  verified.  Regardless  of  their  promises  to  leave  the  inha- 
bitants their  lives,  property,  and  religion,  the  besiegers  no  soon- 
er were  admitted  than  churches,  dwellings,  and  people  were 
at  once  annihilated  by  fire  and  the  sword. 

"  A  mountain  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Timna  was  remark- 
able for  caverns  almost  inaccessible.  The  devotees  of  suc- 
ceeding times  delighted  to  occupy  caves  which  this  incident 
had  made  so  memorable.  The  city,  however,  was  for  some 
ages,  desolate  and  solitary.  Timon,  who  had  been  hitherto  the 
tutelary  saint  of  the  isle,  and  had  inspired  his  worshippers  with 
uncommon  obstinacy  in  their  resistance  of  the  Saracens,  was 
regarded  by  those  conquerors  with  peculiar  hatred.  Hence 
their  severity  against  his  sanctuary,  and  the  last  strong  hold  of 
the  Christians.  They  razed  all  the  churches  dedicated  to  his 
honour,  and  were  careful  to  suppress  his  shrines,  pilgrimages 
and  festivals. 

■■'•  Timna  owed  its  population,  not  to  any  local  convenience 


223 

or  advantage,  for  It  was  situated  among  rocks  and  prfeclpices 
in  the  heart  of  the  country,  but  merely  to  the  sanctity  derived 
from  the  birth  and  the  reliques  of  Timon.  This  sanctity  being 
withdrawn,  the  enmity  of  the  conquerors  was  seconded  by 
popular  indifference. 

"  When  the  Christian  power  was  re-established,  the  mosque 
and  fortress  erected  on  the  ruins  of  the  church  of  Timna,  was 
converted  into  somewhat  like  a  monastery.  The  Moorish 
temple  became  a  Christian  chapel,  which  was  sanctified  by  be- 
ing the  ancient  residence  of  Timon. 

"  The  Saracens  had  less  reason  to  persecute  the  memory  of 
Vesta  than  of  Timon.  Hence  the  general  devotion  was  almost 
concentered  in  the  former  and  her  daughters,  and  her  suprema- 
cy was  too  well  established  at  the  coming  of  the  Martels  to 
give  place  to  the  apostle.  This  pre-eminence  was  rendered 
still  more  stable  by  the  general  belief  that  the  first  Charles  was 
prompted  to  the  invasion  of  Carsol  by  a  dream,  in  which  Vesta 
had  appeared  to  him,  and  exhorted  him  to  undertake  the  en- 
terprize.  This  story  was  given  out  by  Martel  as  his  mo- 
tive to  the  undertaking,  and  whether  a  real  dream,  or  onlv 
feigned  to  secure  success  to  his  arms,  the  rumour  kindled  the 
enthusiasm  of  his  followers,  and  of  the  Carce  themselves,  and 
no  doubt  contributed  greatly  to  the  success  of  his  efforts. 

"  A  priest  and  ten  monks  were  consecrated  by  Charles  to  the. 
service  of  the  chapel  at  Timna.  The  general  curiosity  was 
greatly  excited  with  regard  to  the  fate  of  the  Saint  and  his  re- 
liques. The  story  of  their  miraculous  flight,  and  their  con- 
cealment in  the  recesses  of  the  neighbouring  hills,  had  by  no 
means  been  blotted  from  the  memory  of  the  pious  by  the  lapse 
of  five  centuries.  Though  during  the  kingdom  of  the  Arabs 
various  tales  had  been  current  of  their  recovery  by  certain 
hermits,  who  successively  passed  their  lives  on  this  hill.  These 
tales  had  never  been  generally  or  fully  credited. 

In  this  state  of  things  the  priest  of  this  chapel  dreamed, 
about  the  year  1315,  that  a  venerable  man  appeared  beside  his 
couch,  and  announcing  himself  as  the  primitive  apostle,  direct- 
ed him  to  a  certain  spot  in  the  mountain,  vv'here  hit,  bones,  so 
long  concealed,  were  deposited  in  a  marble  box.  toa,frher  with 


224 

a  writing  composed  by  the  Saint's  own  hand.  This  dream  was 
solemnly  related  by  the  priest  to  the  bishop  of  Timosa  and  king 
Charles  II,  and  the  dreamer  being  famous  for  his  sanctity, 
they  ordered  the  spot  pointed  out  to  be  examined.  The  box, 
with  the  bones  of  a  man,  and  a  writing  upon  parchment  cased 
in  oak  were  found  agreeably  to  the  dream.  These  reliques  were 
deposited  beneath  the  altar  of  the  chapel  j  the  monastic  body 
was  enlarged ;  the  whole  fortress  of  Timna  was  assigned  to 
their  use  ;  this  shrine  became  the  resort  of  pilgrims  ;  and  be- 
fore it  the  princes  received  their  crown  from  the  bishop  of 
Timosa.  The  popular  zeal  was  anew  excited  by  this  circum- 
stance. Convents  dedicated  to  Timon  were  established  in  va- 
rious places.  During  the  first  half  of  the  fourteenth  century 
forty  monasteries  were  established  by  the  order  of  Timothite. 

"  In  the  dissolution  of  the  Roman  power  in  Carsol,  the  royal 
authority  naturally  devolved  on  the  bishops  of  Timosa,  the  suc- 
cessors of  Timotheus.  They  were  elected  by  a  monastic  fra- 
ternity or  chapter  of  thirteen  persons,  who  performed  religious 
offices  in  the  cathedral  of  Timosa.  This  kind  of  theocracy 
existed  for  two  or  three  centuries,  and  was  not  dissimilar  to 
the  authority  exercised  in  the  Roman  territory  by  the  popes. 

"  The  Vandals  speedily  adopted  the  religion  of  their  subjects, 
and  the  pontifical  power  became  neai-ly  as  absolute  as  before. 
The  whole  political  authority  was  divided  between  the  bishop 
of  Timosa  and  the  Vandal  prince.  They  neither  of  them  ac- 
knowledged a  superior  in  Constantinople  or  Rome. 

"  The  annals  of  Carsol  relate,  that  Timon  was  a  native  of 
this  island,  a  Greek  by  descent,  and  a  Roman  citizen  of  emi- 
nence. That  he  was  born  in  Timosa,  which  with  the  neigh- 
bouring lands  was  his  patrimony.  That  he  travelled  in  his 
youth  to  Rome  and  Athens.  In  the  former  place  he  met  St. 
Paul,  became  his  convert  and  companion,  and  finally  undertook 
the  conversion  of  his  native  Island.  He  began  with  his  ancient 
tenants,  from  whom  he  formed  the  earliest  Christian  congrega- 
tion. At  his  death  he  named  his  successor,  and  at  the  same 
time  appointed  thirteen  persons,  who,  together  with  the  bishop, 
were  to  govern  the  society,  and  from  whose  number,  perpetu- 
ally renewed  by  their  own  election,  future  bishops  were  to  be 


225 

taken.  The  birth  of  this  apostle  is  fixed  at  the  year  ten  of  the 
Christian  era,  and  his  death  in  the  year  ninety-one.  From  him 
to  the  present  time  a  regular  and  uninterrupted  series  of  bishops 
of  Timosa  is  recorded.  Their  whole  number,  inchiding  the 
first,  is  one  hundred  and  eight.  The  names,  characters,-  and 
principal  events  in  the  life  of  all  these  are  still  preserved,  and 
the  voluminous  detail,  whatever  infidelity  foreigners  may  en- 
tertain of  its  truth,  was,  till  the  succession  of  the  Carrils,  an 
object  of  religious  belief  among  the  Carse. 

"  The  theological  library  of  Carsol  is  extremely  extensive.  It 
consists  of  the  chronicles,  homilies,  meditations,  and  epistles  of 
a  great  number  of  these  bishops  and  of  others.  The  woi-k  of 
greatest  sanctity  among  them  are  the  original  epistles  of  Timon. 

"  I  have  just  related  the  manner  in  which  these  epistles  were 
preserved.  The  existence  of  such  a  manuscript,  previous  to 
the  Saracen  invasion,  is  generally  acknowledged  ;  but  the  copies  ■ 
made  from  it  during  that  period,  and  distributed  among  church- 
es and  convents,  were  totally  destroyed  by  the  followers  of  Ma- 
homet. These  rulers  had  been  exasperated  by  repeated  efforts 
to  shake  off  their  yoke,  and  knowing  the  efficacy  of  a  sacred 
book  to  keep  alive  enthusiasm,  they  had  taken  infinite  pains  to 
destroy  every  copy  of  this.  They  had  apparently  succeeded, 
but  the  auspicious  vision  of  the  monk  of  Timna  convinced 
the  nation  that  heaven  had  not  entirely  deserted  them. 

"  As  these  islanders  considered  Timon  as  their  sole  and  pe- 
culiar apostle,  their  religious  faith  was  built  entirely  upon  his 
writings.  They  were  early  distinguished  in  the  christian  world, 
as  a  sect  which  rejected  all  the  apostolical  writings  but  these- 
Hence  their  appellation  of  Timonites.  These  writings  con- 
tained a  concise  biography  of  Christ,  and  several  doctrinal  and 
monitory  epistles. 

"  They  boasted  of  possessing  these  writings  in  the  hand  of 
the  original  composer,  together  with  his  bones.  This  double 
treasure  formed  the  palladium  of  the  nation,  with  the  posses- 
sion of  which  their  temporal  safety  was  as  inseparably  connect- 
ed, as  their  eternal  welfare  was  with  the  profession  of  the  faith 
they  contained.  They  were  consequently  deposited  in  a  very 
strong  fortress   in  the  centre  of  a  lake  already  mentioned  un.- 

29  ^ 


226 

dcr  the  name  of  Timosa,  and  I  have  ah*eady  related  the  manner 
of  their  loss. 

"  While  this  palladium  was  safe,  no  defeats  or  misfortunes 
could  persuade  the  people  that  their  opposition  to  the  Arab  in- 
vaders was  desperate.  As  soon  as  it  was  lost,  there  was  no- 
thing that  could  reanimate  their  confidence.  We  may  easily 
imagine  the  transports  of  universal  joy  which  attended  their 
recovery  under  the  second  Charles.  From  the  first  dream  of 
the  monk  Felix  to  the  actual  restoration  of  these  reliques  there 
elapsed  fourteen  days.  It  was  solemnly  decreed  that  the  future 
year  should  commence  on  the  anniversary  of  the  first  of  these 
days.  That  the  fourteen  should  be  one  continued  festival,  in 
which  the  whole  business  of  the  society  should  be  social  emu- 
lation and  religious  gratitude.  This  grand  festival  commences 
on  the  4th  of  February  every  year. 

"  The  Alexanders  signalized  their  magnificence  and  piety* 
by  erecting  at  Timosa,  a  sort  of  temple  and  fortress,  on  a  plan 
of  greater  solidity  and  magnitude  than  any  preceding  structure 
on  the  same  spot.  lu- it  were  united  the  temple,  the  monrtstery, 
the  palace  and  the  castle.  The  work  was  begun  in  the  year 
1521,  and  diligently  pursued  to  its  completion  in  1560,  by  two 
thousand  v/orkmen,  a  period  of  forty-one  years.  Long  as  this 
period  is  and  great  as  is  this  number  of  workmen  both  appear 
too  small  when  we  examine  carefully  this  structure. 

"  The  religion  of  the  Timonites  was  different  in  many  res- 
pects from  that  of  the  neighbouring  nations.  Within  their  nar- 
row sphere  there  was  room  enough  for  innumerable  sects,  which 
agreed  with  each  other  in  nothing  but  in  acknowledging  no  other 
authority  than  the  remains  of  Timon.  Their  ecclesiastical 
history  exhibits  a  various  picture.  Its  earliest  scenes  display- 
ed the  struRgles  of  the  new  religion  against  the  paganism  of  the 
natives,  and  the  persecuting  ra'ge  of  some  of  the  Roman  em- 
perors. Two  centuries  and  an  half  elapsed  between  the  esL- 
tinction  of  Paganism  and  the  invasion  of  the  Vandals.  During 
this  time,  several  sects  were  successively  dominant,  but  the 
tenets  of  Vesta  being  adopted  by  the  conquerors,  the  worship 
of   the   country    became   pretty    uniform.       There    were  aL* 


227 

ways  dissidents,  but  they  composed  always  a  very  small  mi- 
nority. 

"  Under  the  iron  yoke  of  the  Saracens,  the  various  sects  in- 
sensibly coalesced  into  one,  and  the  Martels,  though  educated 
in  superstitious  veneration  for  the  church  of  Rome,  found  it 
necessary  to  leave  the  rescued  nation  in  quiet  possession  of 
their  tenets  and  their  mode  of  worship. 

'*  The  Roman  pontiffs  naturally  regarded  an  island  so  much 
in  the  centre  of  their  ecclesiastical  empire,  with  eyes  of  desire. 
The  invasion  of  Martel  was  a  kind  of  crusade,  in  the  success 
of  which  the  popes  imagined  their  own  interest  principally  in- 
volved. They  urged  Martel  to  the  enterprize,  not  only  fpr 
the  sake  of  expelling  infidels,  but  of  reducing  schismatics  to  the 
dominion  of  the  church.  Happily,  however,  for  the  people  of 
Carsol,  their  conqueror,  in  the  midst  of  his  religious  zeal,  had 
a  large  and  comprehensive  understanding.  He  perceived  the 
injustice  of  tearing  from  this  class  of  christians,  their  favourite 
belief,  and  indeed,  was  thoroughly  convinced  that  the  undertak- 
ing was  impossible.  He  eluded  therefore,  the  demands  and  ex- 
pectations of  the  court  of  Rome,  and  his  contumacy  being 
flnalh  punished  bv  excommunication,  he  made  his  quarrel  with 
the  pope  irreparable,  and  completed  his  union  with  his  new 
subjects,  bv  solemnly  embracing  their  religion  and  restoring 
their  hierarchy  to  the  state  in  which  it  was  in  the  time  of  the 
Vandals. 

"  The  pretensions  of  the  pope  excited  many  broils  in  suc- 
ceeding times.  According  to  the  temper  and  character  of  the 
Carsol  pontiffs  and  kings,  their  authority  in  this  island  aug- 
mented or  declined.  The  warm  attachment  of  the  princes  to 
the  Tlmonite  creed  ;  to  their  own  dignity  and  independence, 
was  an  insuperable  barrier  to  these  pretensions. 

*'  Numberless  conferences  and  negociations  were  carried  on, 
in  order  to  reconcile  the  Carsol  and  Romish  churches  ;  that  is, 
to  bring  the  former  into  subjection  to  the  latter.  By  dint  of 
repetition  and  perseverance  this  enterprize  was  finally  accom- 
plished. The  general  supremac)-  of  the  pope  was  acknowledged. 
His  schemes,  particularly  the  Calendaria,  for  drawing  a  reve- 


228 

aue  from  the  countiy,  were  tolerated.  His  sanction  of  the 
choice  of  patriarch,  being  required,  naturally  led  the  way 
to  other  encroachments,  and  by  the  cunning  and  incessant  ef- 
forts of  four  centuries,  .the  ecclesiastical  independence  of  the 
island  was  almost  entirely  subverted. 

"  No  innovation  has,  however,  been  made  in  the  modes  of 
faith  and  worship.  A  kind  of  political  authority  has  been  in- 
vested in  the  pope,  over  the  revenues  and  officers  of  the  church, 
but  the  speculative  dogmas  of  the  Romish  creed  have  been  care- 
fully excluded.  The  order  of  events  has  been  opposite  to  that 
which  has  taken  place  in  many  christian  nations,  where  the 
papal  power  over  officers  and  revenues  has  frequently  been  des- 
troyed, while  the  unity  of  faith  and  worship  has  been  unim- 
paired. 

"  The  worship  of  the  Carce  is  a  kind  of  medium  between 
the  gross  and  bloody  rules  of  paganism,  and  the  abstractions  of 
some  sects  of  christians.  It  is  a  stranger  to  the  sacrifice  of 
living  creatures.  No  blood  of  unoffending  innocence  is  shed 
at  the  altar  of  its  deity,  in  the  name  of  propitiation  or  atone- 
ment. 

*'  As  no  efficacy  is  ascribed  to  the  agonizing  cries  of  ani- 
mals, or  the  fumes  rising  from  their  \yarm  blood,  neither  is 
any  value  placed  upon  the  odour  of  burning  Thus.  No  smoke 
of  incense  is  ever  seen  in  their  temples,  nor  is  their  deity 
imagined  to  be  anywise  accessible  through  the  medium  of 
smell. 

"  They  differ  nevertheless  from  those  who  imagine  that 
God's  omniscience  his  universal  existence,  and  his  unalterable 
energy  of  his  general  government,  together  with  his  exemption 
from  all  human  passions,  abolish  the  necessity  or  use  of  any 
kind  of  worship  which  consists  in  oral  supplication  or  thanks- 
giving, and  which  sanctifies  one  language,  one  dress,  one  time 
or  one  place  beyond  another  ;  or  rather,  from  this  very  opinion 
they  derive  an  argument  for  limiting  this  kind  of  worship  to 
those  who  were  once  mortal,  who  though  purified  and  exalted, 
have  still  a  resemblance  or  identity  with  their  former  selves, 
who  have  carried  into  a  state  of  new  existence,  all  the  good, 
without  any  of  the  bad  qualities   incident  to  human  nature, 


229 

who  nourish  still  the  attachment  to  the  region  of  their  Urth 
which  they  had  while  clothed  in  human  bodies ;  and  are  still 
actuated  by  the  same  passion  for  its  welfare  and  felicity ;  a  pas- 
sion joined  with  much  greater  wisdom  and  disjoined  from  all 
selfish  and  erroneous  attributes. 

"  The  use  of  temples,  festivals  and  prayers  are  not  enjoin- 
ed according  to  them,  because  their  duties  are  more  accessible 
at  one  time  or  place,  or  in  one  language  rather  than  another. 
These  are  rendered  necessary  merely  by  the  occupations  and 
infirmities  of  mankind  :  who  cannot,  as  experience  proves,  per- 
form two  things  at  once ;  who  can  perform  certain  acts  much 
better,  with  more  fervour  and  attention,  in  some  situations 
than  in  others.  Their  tutelary  power  is  present  and  accessible 
at  all  times  and  places,  but  by  setting  apart  times  and  places 
for  the  purpose  of  addressing  him,  and  establishing  certain 
preliminaries  to  the  act,  the  imagination  of  the  worshipper  is 
more  strongly  disposed  to  such  addresses.  Thus  does  the  use 
of  temples,  whose  style  of  building  and  ornament  possess  beau- 
ty and  grandeur,  and  is  exclusively  confined  to  the  same  uses, 
thus  does  a  peculiar  dialect,  peculiar  words,  and  peculiar  melo- 
dy become  efficacious  means  of  exciting  and  directing  the  ima- 
gination and  thoughts  in  the  desirable  manner. 

"  Those  forms  of  worship  which  represent  a  sacrifice,  either 
real  or  symbolical,  they  totally  reject,  because  the  notion  of  a 
sacrifice  is  in  itself  absurd  or  unintelligible,  is  adapted  to  pro- 
duce no  salutary  effects  on  the  understanding  or  the  morals,  and 
is  wholly  inapplicable  to  the  objects  of  their  worship.  Hence 
the  mass  with  all  its  appertenances  and  appendages  are  rejected 
from  their  system. 

"  As  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  true  worshippers  require 
to  be  fixed  upon  the  conduct  and  examples  of  the  objects  of 
their  adoration,  the  following  means  are  thought  to  be  highly 
serviceable  to  that  end.  First,  the  putting  into  words  the 
actions  and  virtues  of  these  personages ;  and  reciting  them  at 
times  and  in  places  connected  with  the  actions  and  actors. 
B)'  embodying  the  persons  themselves  in  marble  or  other  du- 
rable materials,  and  placing  them  in  the  domes  consecrated 
to  this  worship.     The  imagination  is  in  no  way  more  forcibly 


230 

affected  than  by  such  visible  representations  of  the  object  ad- 
dressed :  and  as  statuary  is  upon  the  whole  a  much  more  strik- 
ing representation  of  nature,  than  a  flat  surface  however  art- 
fully coloured,  statuary  is  prefered  to  painting. 

"  As  to  the  existence  of  an  order  of  men,  denominated 
priests  or  clergy,  their  use  is  limited  to  that  of  preaching  and 
lecturing.  Their  proper  province  is  to  instruct  their  country- 
men in  the  truths  of  piety  and  virtue.  For  this  end  they  are 
subjected  to  particular  discipline ;  their  subsistence  is  provided 
for,  independently  of  their  own  labour  and  attention  ;  times 
and  places  are  allotted  for  publicly  delivering  their  instructions^ 
and  the  persons,  who  composed  their  school,  are  bound  by  cer- 
tain laws  and  penalties,  to  attend.  The  two  departments  of 
teaching  and  v/orshipping  are  carefully  separated,  and  are  per- 
formed in  different  halls  and  on  different  occasions ;  though 
the  preacher  is  invested  with  a  certain  superintendance  and  di- 
rection over  worship. 

"  Such  are  the  outlines  of  the  s}''stem  of  opinions  respecting 
religious  worship,  adopted  by  the  more  enlightened  among 
the  Carce.  How  far  these  notions  are  diffused  among  the 
vulgar,  is  another  question  :  how  far  they  are  influenced,  by 
the  belief  of  express  command,  issued  bv  God,  and  enforced  by 
the  penalty  of  eternal  perdition  hereafter,  to  the  observance  of 
these  modes  of  worship  :  how  far  they  consider  the  day,  the 
temple  and  the  statue  as  possessing  the  actual  and  exclusive 
presence  of  their  deity ;  what  notions  they  entertain  of  the  na- 
ture, character  and  habits  of  their  gx)ds  are  different  subjects 
of  inquiry. 

"  The  Carce,  in  general,  believe  that  no  other  times  or  pla- 
ces of  worship  than  these  in  use  would  be  acceptable  ;  that 
painting  in  these  churches  would  be  impious  and  idolatrous  ; 
that  Heaven  would  be  deeply  oflended  by  omitting  or  removing 
the  statue  which  they  consider  as  the  exact  resemblance  of  the 
person  whose  name  it  bears,  "vvhich  in  many  cases,  they  be- 
lieve to  have  been  mii-aculously  formed,  and  the  possession  of 
which  they  regard  as  indispensible  to  the  success  of  their  pray- 
ers :  that  the  clergy  have  an  indelible  and  sacred  character,  and 
and  enjoy  their  privileges  and  authority  by  the  express  command 


25  i 

direction  of  Heaven,  delivered  through  the  mouth  of  his  mes- ' 
senger  Timotheus ;  that  the  observance  of  the  rites  and  pre- 
cepts delivered  in  their  sacred  book,  and  interpreted  by  their  di- 
vines, will  be  rewarded  by  eternal  being  and  beatitude.  Such 
is  the  creed  of  those  who  do  not  reason,  and  of  most  of  those 
who  do,  because  in  these  points  they  are  governed  by  habit 
and  example,  or  because  the  facts  and  arguments,  by  which 
they  are  supported,  are  sufficient  to  convince  them. 

The  Carce  temple  exhibits  an  altar  or  pedestal,  on  which  a 
statue  large  as  life,  in  white  marble,  is  erected.  This  statue 
placed  in  the  most  honourable  situation,  is  that  of  the  saint  or 
divinity  to  whom  the  church  is  dedicated.  Timon,  Vesta  and 
her  ten  daughters,  the  first  Charles,  and  the  nine  bishops,  im- 
mediate successors  of  Timon  in  that  sacred  office,  are  the  only 
names  in  which  the  churches  of  the  island  are  consecrated. 
The  canonized  or  deified  bishops  are  Caecilius,  Sophron>  Ceci- 
lius  Secundus,  Felix,  Clemens,  Cecilius  Tertius,  Clemens  Se- 
cundus,  Cecilius  Quartus,  Felix  Secundus.  These  nine  pre- 
lates lived  from  A.  I).  91,  till  391,  a  period  of  three  cen- 
turies. 

*'  The  oldest  statue  of  Vesta  was,  it  is  not  impossible,  a 
statue  of  the  pagan  divinity  that  bears  the  same  name.  This, 
with  ten  others  preserved  in  different  temples,  and  which  pass 
for  the  statues  of  her  daughters,  have  occupied  their  present 
station,  since  the  year  700.  Though  histoiy  be  silent,  legend 
and  tradition  are  very  circumstantial  in  their  account  of  these 
statues.  I'hey  were  formed,  it  seems,  by  a  miraculous  influ- 
ence, after  the  decease  of  the  originals.  In  the  convent  which 
they  founded,  the  mother  survived  ten  daughters,  and  saw 
the  extremity  of  old  age  without  decay  or  infirmity.  On  her 
death  bed,  in  order  to  console  the  sisterhood,  she  told  them 
that,  though  withdrawn  by  the  decrees  of  Heaven,  from  mor- 
tal to  immortal  existence,  she  intended  to  intercede  with  God 
for  the  privilege  of  returning  to  them,  in  the  course  of  a  few 
circling  years.  Should  she  succeed  in  her  prayers,  she  would 
gladly  assume  her  own  shape,  and  continue  to  direct  their  ac- 
ceptable devotions  as  formerly.  If  a  different  decree,  however, 
should  bf.  made,  she  would  send  them  in  token  of  Jier  afFec- 


232 

ilbnate  regard  for  them,  the  images  of  herself  and  her  daugh- 
ters in  a  form  which,  if  secured  from  violence,  would  be  im- 
mortal. To  these  images  they  should  pay  homage  as  to  her, 
for  though,  unseen  by  mortal  eyes,  a  portion  of  her  spirit  would 
latently  animate  the  figure,  and  its  presence  should  secure  to 
them  perpetual  protection  and  felicity. 

"  Several  years  elapsed  before  the  fulfilment  of  this  pro- 
phecy. At  length  going  in  full  procession  to  her  chapel,  at  mid- 
night the  commencement  of  her  annual  festival,  eleven  images 
in  marble  of  divine  beauty,  were  found  arranged  on  the  same 
number  of  pedestals.  The  sacred  apartment  was  illuminated 
by  a  lamp  of  silver,  suspended  from  the  roof,  and  fed  with 
ambrosial  oil.  The  statues,  the  lamp,  and  the  light,  being 
transported  hither  by  means  inconceivable  and  preternatural. 

"  Such  is  the  tale  solemnly  related  by  the  abbess,  who  pre- 
sided at  the  time,  and  which  has  been  faithfully  delivered  down 
to  the  present  age. 

'*  The  place,  selected  by  Vesta  as  her  retreat,  was  a  rock  on 
the  borders  of  the  Meri  lake.  It  rose  to  a  considerable  height 
and  jutted  out,  like  a  promontory,  into  the  lake.  On  the  flat 
top  of  this  rock,  a  space  of  several  acres,  she  erected  a  spa- 
cious and  solid  building,  where  with  her  daughters  and  a  few 
devout  companions,  she  continued  for  the  rest  of  her  days. 
The  solemn  beauties  of  this  water  and  its  shores  might  well 
have  been  recommended  as  a  scene  of  religious  meditation.  The 
act  by  which  the  lamp  was  supplied,  was  inexhaustible,  and  the 
light  an  undying  flame,  continued  to  illuminate  these  sacred 
walls  till  the  invasion  of  the  Infidels. 

"  At  that  period,  a  dame  renowned  for  her  sanctity,  presid- 
ed in  this  mansion.  Though  she  had  reason  to  tremble  for  her 
life,  and  the  lives  of  her  daughters,  she  experienced  no  anxiety 
but  to  preserve  these  sacred  emblems  from  profanation.  Hea- 
ven condescended  to  relieve  her  distress,  and  by  a  revelation, 
directed  her  to  carry  the  lamp  and  statues  into  a  vault  in  the 
building,  in  which  for  the  first  time,  they  discovered  a  circular 
opening,  and  downward  stair  case  in  the  rocky  pavement. 
They  descended  this  stair,  with  their  precious  charge,  and  the 


opening  immediately  closed,  and  all  traces  of  it  were;  thence- 
forth invisible. 

"  While  this  scene  was  acting,  the  enemy  approached  the 
walls,  finding  the  gates  open  they  entered  in  tumultuous  crowds. 
When  the  house  was  filled  with  these  unbidden  guests,  a  shake 
of  thunder  was  heard  ;  the  massy  walls  and  roof  fell  to  the 
ground,  and  crushed  every  person  beneath  them  to  death.  An 
heap  of  ruins  continued  to  attest  this  miracle  till  the  coming  of 
the  Martels,  when  tradition  having  faithfully  preserved  these 
events,  the  rubbish  was  carefully  removed  ;  and  lo  !  an  opening 
and  staircase  presented  itself.  The  explorers  descended  till 
they  reached  a  cell  where  they  beheld  these  eleven  statues,  with 
the  lamp,  still  lightening  the  place,  in  the  midst.  On  being  car- 
ried up  to  the  surface  of  the  earth,  the  lamp  suddenly  went  out, 
and  the  materials  of  which  it  was  composed  crumbled  into 
dust.  The  statues  were  replaced  in  a  chapel  erected  anew  up- 
on the  spot,  but  all  of  them  except  that  of  Vesta,  were  at  dif- 
ferent times  removed  to  churches  built  for  their  reception. 

"  An  incredulous  antiquary  will  be  apt  to  consider  those 
statues  as  no  other  than  the  ornaments  of  some  Roman  temple 
or  some  proconsul's  villa.  In  their  style  and  execution  they 
are  evidently  the  work  of  the  best  age  of  sculpture.  There 
is  a  family  resemblance  between  the  whole  group,  but  no- 
thing that  could  lead  us  to  believe  them  modelled  after  the 
same  ideal  model.  The  physiognomy  is  extremely  intel- 
ligent and  pleasing,  but  perfect  symmetry  is  seen  in  none 
of  them. 

"  Some  inquirers  have  conjectured  that  they  were  designed 
to  represent  the  nine  muses,  with  Mnemosyne  their  mother. 
It  is  remarkable,  if  either  conjecture  be  true,  that  the  wife 
and  daughters  of  a  Roman  senator,  should  become,  for  many 
centuries,  the  idols  of  a  numerous  and  enlightened  people  :  or 
that  these  tutelary  honours  should  be  assigned  to  the  children 
of  some  nameless  sculptor's  fancy.  It  is  no  less  remarkable 
that  they  should  in  process  of  time  come  to  resume  the  very 
attributes  which  the  artist  had  originally  assigned  to  them, 
since   thry  have  been  naturally   exalted  by   the  poets  of  the 

30  ^ 


334 

country  into  patronesses  of  the  sciences ;  to  each  one  a  peculiat 
province  in  the  intellectual  kingdom  having  been  allotted. 

'« In  consequence  of  these  miraculous  images  being  formed  of 
white  marble,  in  the  graceful  raiment  and  simplicity  of  an- 
cient art,  the  Carce  worship  has  considered  this  material  and  this 
forixi  as  essential  and  peculiar  to  religious  worship.  As  church- 
es and  convents  multiplied  in  the  island,  copies  were  made  of 
these  originals.  These  partook  of  the  rudeness  and  barbarism 
of  the  times,  nor  was  it  till  the  Alexandrine  period,  that  the  co- 
pies began  to  vie  with  the  originals  in  elegance  and  beauty. 
During  this  period  also,  a  kind  of  harmony  and  sanctity  began 
to  be  discovered  between  this  and  the  ancient  principles  of  archi- 
tecture. Vesta,  having  by  this  stupendous  miracle,  attested 
the  superior  sanctity  of  the  ancient  mode  of  sculpture,  a  kin- 
dred sanctity  was  supposed  to  appertain  to  every  thing  which 
existed  at  the  same  time  ;  and  thus  the  ancient  architecture 
obtained  a  sort  of  religious  reverence.  To  erect  temples  of 
the  same  material  as  the  statue  it  contained,  and  to  ascribe  to 
them  additional  sanctity  on  that  account,  was  the  dictate  of  na- 
tural superstition.  To  these  ideas  are  we  indebted  for  the 
splendid  and  eternal  monuments  of  architecture  and  sculpture 
produced  in  the  fifteenth  century.  The  island  abounded  in  all 
kinds  of  marble,  a  kind  similar  in  hue  and  texture  to  the  Pari- 
an exists  in  great  quanilties  :  and  of  this  were  formed  the 
twelve  hundred  temples,  convents  and  colleges,  with  which  the 
island  was  adorned  by  the  indefatigable  zeal  of  the  four  Alex- 
anders. 

"  It  is  not  surprising  that  these  circumstances  should  gene- 
rate a  belief  that  all  representations  of  nature,  by  the  chissel 
should  be  confined  to  religious  purposes.  In  an  apartment  set 
apart  for  devout  offices  or  meditations,  all  ornaments  were 
deemed  profane  but  such  as  the  chissel  produced,  and  due 
sanctity  could  only  be  conferred  on  such  recesses,  by  some 
image  of  the  human  form  divine.  The  size  of  this  image  was 
of  no  indispensable  importance.  Divine  properties  were  capa- 
ble of  being  given  to  a  colossal  statue  seven  feet  high  or  to  q. 
face,  executed  in  relief  upon  a  ring ;  but  they  could  not  be 
imparted  to  any  thing  but  the  human  form,   or  so  much  of  it 


235 

as  Included  the  face  at  least ;  to  any  thing  but  a  solid  resem- 
blance of  these,  or  to  any  such  resemblance,  but  such  as  was 
wrought  in  white  marble.  To  such  resemblances  formed  of 
other  materials,  no  sanctity  could  be  imparted,  bat  sculpture 
was  considered  as  sacrilegiously  employed  in  producing  the 
human  figure  out  of  any  other  substance.  Hence  it  was  that 
the  pencil  arid  its  wonders  were  rigorously  banished  from  all  re- 
ligious offices  or  places,  and  confined  entirely  to  profane  or  ci- 
vil uses.  The  chamber,  the  parlour  and  the  hall,  were  the  pro- 
per spheres  of  painting,  and  such  sculpture  as  did  not  extend 
to  the  human  figure.  The  temple  or  chapel,  on  the  contrary, 
excluded  every  colour  but  white,  and  every  ornament  but  such 
as  the  plastic  art  produces. 

"  Timon  and  his  nine  successors  have  also  their  original  sta- 
tues ;  of  whose  genuineness  there  is  no  doubt,  and  whose  sanc- 
tity, though  produced  by  a  mortal  workman,  is  attested  bv 
many  miracles  and  revelations.  From  these  are  the  copies 
taken  which  are  set  up  in  so  many  churches,  chapels  and, 
convents. 

"  It  is  not  unlawful  to  copy  the  human  face  or  form  in  mar- 
ble, but  by  so  doing  we  confer  upon  them  a  certain  degree  of 
sanctity.  As  the  objects  of  established  worship  were  formerly 
mere  human  beings,  there  is  no  essential  or  specific  diflference 
between  them  and  the  mortals  of  the  present  age.  Good  men 
by  their  death,  became  associated  with  Timon,  Vesta  and 
Caroliis  Divus.  Their  characters  and  services  to  mankind  en- 
title them  to  less  reverence  ;  but  some  reverence,  exactly  of 
the  same  kind  is  not  denied  to  them.  Private  individuals  are 
therefore  permitted  to  evince  their  regard  for  the  dead,  by  per- 
petuating their  likeness  In  marble,  but  this  is  a  solitary  and  indi^ 
vidual  act.  No  one  is  entitled  to  a  place  in  any  acknowledged 
church,  to  have  the  day  of  his  death  inserted  in  the  calender 
as  a  general  festival,  but  such  as  obtain  the  suffrages  of  the 
whole  synod.     This  is  the  act  of  his  canonisation. 

"  As  Carsol  is  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  Roman  empire,  and 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Italy  ;  as  the  Roman  power  was  fully 
established  in  it  in  the  reign  of  Augustus  ;  and  its  tranquility 
suffered  no   memorj^ble   interruption  till  the  Vandal  invasion; 


236 

a  period  of  five  hundred  years  ;  it  is  natural  to  expect  that  tlie 
island  enjoyed  all  the  blessing  that  peace,  commerce,  agricul- 
ture and  civilization  can  confer,  many  vestiges  of  that  flour- 
ishing period  may  be  expected  to  remain  even  to  our  own 
times. 

"  The  most  durable  monuments  of  the  Romans  were  build- 
ings, specimens  of  sculpture,  and  coins.  Palaces,  villas,  tem- 
ples, foras,  aqueducts,  theatres,  amphitheatres  and  forts,  no 
doubt  existed  in  this  island,  in  great  numbers.  Fire,  civil  dis- 
cord, occasional  commotions  and  the  influence  of  time,  which 
are  perpetual  causes  of  decay,  operated  to  a  certain  extent 
through  the  whole  Roman  period  ;  but  as  arts  and  civilization 
flourished,  the  destruction  flowing  from  these  causes  must  have 
been  perpetually  repaired. 

"  The  establishment  of  a  new  religion  and  new  manners, 
and  the  decline  of  all  the  arts,  operated  in  a  double  way. 
What  the  former  razed  to  the  ground,  the  latter  were  unable 
to  rebuild  upon  a  different,  but  equally  substantial  and  grace- 
ful model.  The  theatres  and  amphitheatres  deserted  of  their 
accustomed  spectacles,  went  rapidly  to  decay,  or  were  gradual- 
ly demolished  by  the  builders  of  cottages,  fences  or  stables,  in 
their  neighbourhood.  Their  walls  sought  the  level  of  the 
ground,  and  their  foundations  gradually  disappeared  under  an 
accumulated  mass  of  earth.  Forest  trees  took  root  among  their 
crevices,  and  the  plough  traversed  their  areas. 

"  The  temples  were  abhorred  by  the  new  religion  as  the  re- 
cesses of  impiety,  and  to  raze  them  to  the  ground  was  deem- 
ed a  meritorious  act.  Some  few  of  them  were  converted  into 
christian  churches  ;  but  in  these  the  decays  of  nature  could  not 
be  retarded  by  art. 

<'  During  the  dominion  of  the  Vandals,  many  bloody  intes- 
tine revolutions  took  place,  and  the  general  ignorance  and  bar- 
barism contributed  to  hasten  the  extinction  of  ancient  monu- 
ments. The  arts  of  building  assumed  a  new  form,  and  the 
ruins  of  ancient  buildings  already  cut  into  shape,  afforded  ma- 
terials for  new  edifices,  too  conveniently  disposed  to  be  over- 
looked. 


237 

*'  Five  centuries  of  Saracen  empire,  and  the  two  first  of  the 
Martels  afforded  continued  scope  for  all  the  causes  of  decay. 
The  accumulation  of  vegetable  remains,  in  one  place ;  the  for- 
mation of  a  bog  or  swamp  in  another ;  the  slow  but  sure 
operation  of  the  plough  in  a  third ;  the  conversion  of  fallen 
stones  into  the  foundation  or  walls  of  new  buildings  in  a 
fourth ;  the  rage  of  political  or  religious  zeal  in  a  fifth, 
had  made  immeasurable  havock  in  all  the  vestiges  of  former 
ages. 

"  In  the  sixteenth  centurj^,  a  new  spirit  arose.  Literature 
had  lifted  up  the  veil  which  had  hitherto  concealed  the  trans- 
actions of  times  anterior  to  the  Christian  triumph.  Mankind 
became  of  a  sudden  ardently  inquisitive  as  to  all  that  had 
occurred  in  these  ages.  Curiosity  betook  itself  to  every  hint 
and  clue,  by  which  it  might  hope  to  penetrate  the  darkness 
which  infolded  the  past.  They  turned  their  eyes  upon  the 
ground.  Every  artificial  mass  of  earth  or  stone,  was  exam- 
ined, sifted,  analyzed.  Wells  and  hollows  were  carefully  ex- 
plored ;  rivers  and  lakes,  were  dragged  with  nets  and  pervad- 
ed by  divers  ;  the  earth  itself  was  removed  in  places ;  old 
pavements  or  foundations  were  suspected  to  lie  hid  beneath 
it.  The  rules  of  ancient  art  were  employed  to  guide  them  in 
conjecturing  the  uses ;  and  supplying  the  vanished  parts  and 
members  of  what  was  discovered. 

"  Thus  in  the  course  of  half  a  century  did  temples,  the- 
atres, and  palaces  ascend  as  it  were  from  the  abyss  of  obli- 
vion ;  and  shine  in  all  their  pristine  beauty  and  proportions  in 
models  or  in  pictures.  Statues,  mosaics  and  medals  which 
had  rested  beneath  the  sod  or  furrow,  at  the  bottom  of  wells 
or  marshes,  or  rivers,  unknown,  unsuspected  and  unvalued  for 
a  thousand  years,  now  rose  to  light  and  occupied  cabinets  and 
nitches  like  those  from  which  they  had  originally  fallen. 

<'  The  number  of  coins  or  medals,  and  engraved  stones, 
formed  between  the  fall  of  Carthage  and  the  reign  of  Con- 
stantine,  recovered  during  this  period  and  still  preserved  in  the 
island,  exceeds  twenty  thousand.  The  statues  conjectured  to 
have  been  formed  during  the  same  period,  recovered  from 
the  bosom  of  the  earth,  from  subterraneous  vaults  or  funeral 


238 

monuments,  exceed  fifteen  hundred.  The  existence  of  five 
hundred  temples  ;  of  three  Fora ;  of  five  theatres,  of  two  am- 
phitheatres and  four  aqueducts  have  been  traced  in  their  ves- 
tiges. These  vestiges  are  more  or  less  numerous  and  entire  ; 
in  some  cases,  the  plan  and  elevation  of  the  original  build- 
ings have  been  made  out  with  sufficient  accuracy,  and  the  in- 
genuity and  daring  fanc)^  of  eminent  designers  have  ventured 
to  rebuild  upon  paper  every  one  of  these  structures.  The 
pencil  and  the  graver  have  contributed  to  adorn  and  multiply 
these  glorious  visions  of  departed  magnificence. 

**  The  third  Alexander  formed  a  society  of  artists,  whose 
business  it  was,  in  the  first  place,  to  delineate  the  remains  of 
architectural  antiquity,  in  their  actual  state  ;  and  secondly,  by 
the  exertion  of  their  own  learning  and  taste,  to  produce  de- 
signs of  the  same  buildings  in  their  original  condition.  These 
designs  having  received  the  sanction  of  the  whole  body,  form- 
ed an  architectural  library  of  great  extent  and  magnificence. 
These  designs  are  accompanied  by  historical  and  critical  dis- 
quisitions on  each  subject. 

"  This  plan  was  afterwards  enlarged,  and  the  same  system 
pursued  with  respect  to  every  architectural  monument  con- 
tained in  the  island.  The  whole  period  was  subdivided  into 
the  Roman,  the  Vandal,  the  Saracen,  the  Martel  and  the 
Alexandrine  ages  ;  a  part  of  a  numerous  society  devoted  it- 
self to  each  of  these  divisions  ;  and  the  produce  of  their  la- 
bours remain  to  this  day. 

*'  The  Alexandrine  period  was  wonderfully  rich  in  archi- 
tectural monuments.  The  face  of  the  country  so  far  as  it 
consists  of  buildings  was  entirely  renewed,  and  almost  total- 
ly changed.  Till  the  accession  of  that  familv,  the  island  was 
covered  with  farms,  cottages,  village  and  city  houses,  and 
palaces,  and  churches,  the  greater  part  of  which  had  been 
built,  during  the  two  preceding  centu;-ies.  Of  all  the  private 
houses  of  townsmen  and  citizens  ;  few  or  none  could  aspire 
to  an  elder  date.  One  hundred  and  twenty  convents  had 
arisen,  some  of  them  on  old  foundations,  during  the  same  pe- 
riod. .Among  a  thousand  churches,  many  had  been  erected 
during  the  Saracen  reign  as  mosques,    and  not  one  hundred 


239 

remained  from  the  preceding  times.  Even  the  latter  had 
been  repaired  and  improved  till  the  ancient  model  had  almost 
entirely  disappeared. 

"  The  mansions  of  the  nobles,  of  which  there  were  upwards 
of  an  hundred,  chiefly  stood  in  situations  which  had  been 
similarly  occupied  from  the  oldest  times.  Some  of  them  were 
sites  of  Roman  fortresses  and  still  displayed  traces  of  their 
masonry.  A  few  of  them,  built  by  the  Vandals,  were  in  a 
more  or  less  ruinous  condition.  All  the  inhabitable  ones  were 
erected  by  the  Saracens,  but  two  centuries  of  decay  and  re- 
novation had  greatly  obliterated  the  features  impressed  upon 
them  by  the  Arabs. 

"  During  much  of  the  fourteenth  century,  a  thousand  vil- 
lages had  been  fortified  by  a  ditch,  a  mound  and  rows  of  sharp 
stakes  ;  ten  towns  had  been  surrounded  by  walls  and  tow- 
ers, from  six  to  twelve  feet  thick,  and  from  twenty  to  thirty 
feet  in  height.  Carsol  city  was  encompassed  by  walls  six- 
teen feet  in  thickness  and  sixty  feet  high,  and  square  towers 
thirty  feet  thick  and  eighty  or  ninety  feet  in  greatest   height. 

*'  Round,  slender  and  lofty  towers,  partly  for  alarm  and 
partly  for  defence,  were  scattered  over  all  the  hills  and  along 
the  shore.  They  were  chiefly  built  of  rough  stones,  artfully 
adjusted  to  each  other  so  as  to  produce  a  regular  exterior  and 
well  cemented.  They  generally  preserved  the  same  shape 
and  relative  dimensions,  but  their  size  was  extremely  vari- 
ous. Their  height  was  generally  from  thirty  to  ninety  feet, 
and  their  diameter  about  a  fourth  part  of  their  height.  In  the 
centre  of  the  mass,  a  vertical  opening  was  made  just  sufficient 
to  admit  a  narrow  staircase.  The  top  was  a  plat-form,  edged 
with  a  parapet,  with  a  room  underneath  containing  small 
windows. 

"  The  cement  used  in  these  buildings  was  remarkably  tena- 
cious and  hard,  and  bound  together  all  the  motley  materials 
into  a  solid  rock.  Their  regular  structure  and  proportions  ; 
their  great  solidity  and  elevation  grtve  these  towers  an  eflfect 
uncommonly  grand  and  picturesque.  Their  whole  number  ex- 
ceeded an  hundred  and  eight.- 


24a 

*'  The  original  of  these  towers  has  afforded  abundant  em- 
ployment to  the  Carsol  antiquaries.  Almost  every  theory 
hitherto  adopted,  has  been  entangled  with  some  difficulties. 
That  they  were  prior  to  the  Martel  dynasty  is  universally  known. 
The  style  of  their  architecture  is  wholly  different  from  that 
adopted  by  the  Saracens  in  other  structures  ;  besides  there  is 
historical  and  traditionary  testimony  that  the  Arabs  found 
them  on  their  coming.  There  is  no  evidence,  either  from 
history  or  analogy  that  they  were  erected  by  the  Vandals,  and 
the  total  absence  of  all  inscriptions  seems  to  deny  the  claim  of 
the  Greeks  or  Romans. 

"  The  vulgar  have  a  read)-^  way  of  solving  all  such  difficul- 
ties by  supposing  a  miraculous  agency.  Vesta,  to  whom  al- 
most all  public  benefits  are  ascribed,  was,  according  to  the 
popular  nation,  the  builder  of  these  towers.  They  were  all 
of  them  erected,  in  a  single  night,  by  the  strenuous  efforts  of 
some  celestial  power,  whom  the  prayers  of  Vesta  had  persuad- 
ed to  the  undertaking.  Her  son,  who  was  the  second  king  of 
the  Vandal  dynasty,  was  terribly  infested  by  pirates  and  free- 
booters from  the  neighbouring  continent,  and  applying  to  the 
oracular  dame  for  advice  in  what  manner  most  effectually  to 
guard  her  shores  from  the  enemy,  he^  was  told  that  tomor- 
row's sun  should  shine  upon  an  act  of  divine  succour,  extended 
to  him  upon  this  occasion.  The  next  day  the  astonished  eyes 
of  the  prince  and  his  subjects  beheld  innumerable  towers,  erect- 
ed without  human  hands,  in  every  situation  favourable  for  des- 
crying an  enemy,  and  diffusing  through  the  island  warning  of 
his  approach. 

*'  This  seems  to  have  been  the  only  purpose  of  these  build- 
ings by  whomsoever  erected.  The  greatest  distance  between 
any  two  of  them  is  ten  miles  ;  and  modern  surveys  have  de- 
monstrated the  curious  fact  that  an  observer  stationed  on  the 
top  of  any  one  of  them  has  always  one  or  more  of  the  rest 
within  sight,  and  that  the  height  of  the  towers  is  regulated 
with  a  view  to  this  general  interchange  of  signals.  By  this 
means  intelligence  of  any  event  may  be  communicated  to  every 
district  of  the  island  with  almost  the  cE'lcrity  of  light. 


241 

*'  These  towers  form  a  very  remarkable  feature  in  the  Car* 
sol  landscape.  There  are  few  conspicuous  points  from  which 
one  or  more  of  them  may  not  be  seen.  At  a  small  distance 
all  variety  of  form  or  colour  in  the  pieces  of  which  they  con- 
sist is  softened  into  uniformity,  and  their  columnar  dignity 
captivates  the  eye. 

"  The  Alexanders  began  their  improvements  with  taking 
down  the  church  and  convent  of  Timosa,  and  building  in  its 
stead  a  fortress  worthy  to  contain  these  pledges  of  the  general 
safety.  The  ancient  convent  of  Vesta  was,  in  like  manner, 
supplanted  by  a  new  edifice,  more  becoming  the  dignity  of  its 
divine  protectress.  This  convent  had  been  gradually  enlarged 
by  additional  buildings,  into  a  college  or  seminary,  in  which 
all  the  candidates  for  the  clerical  office  were  obliged  to  pass 
through  a  scholastic  probation.  No  person  could  discharge 
any  clerical  function  in  this  island  who  had  not  been  a  pupil 
and  licentiate  of  this  seminary  ;  who  had  not  as  it  were,  re- 
ceived his  divine  commission  at  the  feet  of  Vesta,  Avhose 
statue  formed  the  boast  and  treasure  of  this  institution. 

"  These  princes  successively  encompassed  their  capital,  and 
the  ten  provincial  cities,  with  walls  of  massy  strength.  Car- 
sol  was  defended  by  walls  sixteen  feet  thick,  and  eighty  high 
with  round  towers  of  proportional  magnitude.  The  smaller 
towns  were  protected  by  a  mural,  twelve  feet  thick  and  sixty 
high.  They  erected  in  the  towns,  palaces  for  themselves  and 
their  provincial  deputies.  The  baronial  castles,  the  habita- 
tions of  their  bailiffs,  they  replaced  by  castles  in  which  ele- 
gance and  dignity  of  domestic  accommodation  were  united 
with  military  strength.  Their  example  was  assiduously  fol- 
lowed by  their  nobles,  who  razed  their  ancient  halls,  and  em- 
ployed their  masters  architects  to  construct  for  them  residen- 
ces in  the  style  chosen  by  him.. 

"  All  the  convents  over  which  the  crown  had  exclusive  ju- 
risdiction, were  entirely  rebuilt  upon  new  principles,  princi- 
pally at  his  own  expense.  The  other  convents  copied  this 
example,  and  the  lapse  of  a  century  entirely  changed  these 
features  of  the  island,  which  consisted  in  the  greater  build- 
intrs, 

31   ^ 


242 

"  Alexandra  the  fourth  of  this  line,  succeeded  her  father 
in  1597,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  and  died,  in  1631,  after  a  pros- 
perous reign  of  thirty-four  years.  This  princess  deserves  to 
be  ranked  with  the  most  fortunate  of  mankind,  and  obtained, 
even  during  her  life,  the  memorable  and  unexampled  surname 
of  Felicissima. 

"  To  this  title  she  had  a  claim  founded  not  only  on  the  per- 
sonal advantages  of  beauty  and  health,  but  on  every  intellectu- 
al excellence  and  moral  grace.  She  possessed,  not  only  a 
strong  understanding,  capacious  and  retentive  memory ;  a 
lively  and  rich  fancy  ;  a  fertile  and  sparkling  wit,  but  an  heart 
and  temper  attuned  to  every  generous  affection,  and  endowed 
with  inexhaustible  gaiety.  Her  capacity  was  eminently  fitted 
to  her  station,  and  her  conduct  as  a  sovereign  was  full  of  wis- 
dom and  beneficence.  Compared  with  her  two  illustrious  con- 
temporaries the  Scottish  Mary  and  the  English  Elizabeth,  we 
perceive  in  her  all  the  beauty  and  accomplishments  without 
the  indiscretion  or  calamity  of  the  first,  and  all  the  prudence 
and  felicity,  without  the  feminine  foibles,  the  personal  un- 
amiableness  of  the  latter.  Every  event  seemed  to  conspire  to 
exalt  her  felicity.  The  projects  of  taste,  elegance  and  gran- 
deur of  her  immediate  predecessors  were  so  far  matured,  at  her 
accession,  that  she  had  only  to  uphold  them  by  her  counte- 
nance, and  passively  enjoy  the  benefits  of  which  they  were  pro- 
ductive. The  national  character  had  been  softened  and  the 
seeds  of  political  discords  and  commotions  extinguished  by 
the  meliorating  arts  of  the  three  preceding  reigns.  The 
councellors  and  ministers  which  her  father's  wisdom  had  se- 
lected, and  whom  her  natural  sagacity,  as  well  as  reverence 
for  parental  injunctions,  prompted  her  to  maintain  and  cher- 
ish, were  faithful,  patriotic  and  judicious.  The  acciden- 
tal position  of  the  neighbouring  nations  contributed  at  once 
to  her  personal  security,  and  to  her  dignity  and  reputation 
by  the  opportunities  afforded  her  of  properly  and  beneficially 
interfering  in  their  concerns.  In  short  her  contemporaries 
and  subjects  were  so  powerfully  struck  by  the  felicity  of  her 
lot,  and  by  her  unsullied  and  unmixed  excellencies,  that  she 
came   to  be  regarded  as  something   celestial  and  divine.     Tlie 


243 

sentiments  with  which  her  subjects  were  inspired  were  com- 
pounded of  loyahy  to  the  queen  ;  gratitude  to  the  benefac- 
tor ;  devotion,  to  the  woman;  admiration  of  beauty,  and 
reverence  for  wisdom.  The  ecclesiastical  supremacy  of  the 
crown  being  fully  established  by  her  father,  she  inherited  the 
prerogatives  and  attributes  formerly  belonging  to  the  pope, 
and  these,  uniting  with  a  civil  authority,  nearly  absolute,  and 
with  the  headship  at  once,  of  the  conventual  and  military  or- 
ders of  St.  Charles,  every  limit  to  the  obedience  or  devotion 
of  her  subjects  was  obliterated.  Her  empire  was  extended 
over  the  heart  and  the  mind.  Her  acts  of  government  were 
submitted  to,  not  merely  as  edicts  of  a  lawful  power,  but  as 
edicts  of  unerring  and  inspired  wisdom.  The  divine  authori- 
ty of  the  Roman  pontiffs,  to  which  even  moral  principles  and 
obligations  were  subject,  concentred  in  her.  She  became  the 
chief  priestess  and  hallowed  organ  of  Vesta  ;  and  her  will 
was  the  indisputable  criterion  of  right  and  of  truth. 

"  It  would  not  be  extravagant  to  say  that  this  princess  was 
vv^orshipped  b}^  her  subjects.  The  divine  attributes  by  which 
she  was  clothed  were  not  the  mere  fruits  of  the  adulation  of 
lovers  or  poets.  They  were  bestowed  by  the  enthusiasm  of 
all  classes.  Her  existence  was  fondly  believed  to  be  only  a 
second  visit  of  the  deified  Vesta,  to  her  favourite  isle  ;  the 
personal  and  visible  incarnation  of  the  deity  of  Carsol.  The 
worship  hitherto  paid  to  the  statue  of  that  deitv,  was  now 
paid  with  double  zeal  because  she  of  whom  it  was  the  mute 
representative  was  actually  among  them. 

'*  The  impartial  and  the  sober  minded,  when  they  reflected 
on  the  merits  of  Alexandra,  the  union  of  so  many  qualities, 
seldom  concurring  or  compatible ;  were  inclined  to  adopt  the 
popular  opinion.  Her  extraordinary  felicity  was  a  plain  proof 
that  she  was  under  the  particular  care  of  Heaven  and  those  who 
would  not  acknowledge  her  identit}'  with  Vesta,  or  her  abso- 
lute divinity,  could  not  deny  that  she  was  of  a  species  more 
than  human. 

"  There  are  many  qualities  which  should  seem  to  manifest 
somewhat  of  a  divine  or  celestial  nature  in  an  human  being, 
which  the  perverseness  of  mankind   deem   it  a  crime   to  pos- 


sess,  and  which  they  unaccountably  consider  as  conferred  not 
by  God,  but  by  the  devil.  Does  a  man  possess  the  faculty  of 
diving  into  futurity  ;  of  perceiving  objects  at  an  invisible  dis- 
tance ;  of  repelling  swords  and  bullets  from  his  naked 
body,  of  living  beyond  the  usual  period  of  terrestial  exist- 
ence J  of  converting  base  matters  into  gold  ?  He  is  stigmatiz- 
ed, abhorred  and  punished  as  an  agent  of  the  devil  and  a  rebel 
to  God, 

"  These  prejudices  governed  the  Carce  as  they  govern  the 
rest  of  mankind,  but  while  they  ascribed  some  of  these  pre- 
ternatural qualities  to  their  queen,  they  excepted  her  from  the 
common  sentence  denounced  against  magic  and  necromancy. 
In  her,  these  attributes  were  allowed  to  be  purely  celestial, 
and  to  be  evidence  of  her  communion  and  kindred  with  the 
divine  Vesta. 

"  The  first  Charles  acquired  after  his  death  the  name  and 
the  honours  annexed  to  the  name  of  Divus.  This  title  was 
conferred  upon  Alexandra  during  her  life,  and  the  devotion 
she  excited  was  suitable  to  this  title. 

"  The  uniformity  and  perfection  of  her  health,  and  some 
extraordinary  escape  in  her  early  youth,  amidst  the  clashing 
of  swords  and  the  whistling  of  bullets  had  given  birth  to  the 
opinion  that  she  was  inaccessible  to  wounds    or  diseases. 

"  Her  father,  was  the  most  parsimonious  of  the  Alexan- 
ders. His  passion  for  gold  led  him  into  no  acts  of  meanness 
or  extortion ;  but  he  did,  not  like  his  father  and  grandfather, 
study  to  make  his  expenses  keep  pace  with  his  receipts.  On 
the  contrary,  he  took  pleasure  in  accumulating,  and  the  great 
abilities  of  his  financial  minister  enabled  him  to  indulge  this 
passion  without  injuring  his  subjects.  For  the  last  eleven 
years  of  his  life,  he  annually  received  from  the  king  of  Spain, 
pistoles  and  doubloons  in  gold  equal  in  value  to  forty  thousand 
crowns.  This  money  was  paid  in  pursuance  of  a  secret  stipu- 
lation with  the  court  of  Madrid,  to  which  the  Spanish  am- 
bassador and  himself  only  were  privy.  It  was  the  actual 
price  of  this  prince's  refusal  to  accept  the  sovereignty  of 
Flanders,  which  the  rebellious  Flemings  had  offered  him. 


<'  When  the  successors  of  the  prince  of  Parma  had  nearly 
driven  the  people  of  the  Netherlands  to  despair,  they  offered 
to  transfer  their  allegiance  to  the  king  of  Carsol,  in  return  for 
effectual  succour  in  their  contest  with  Spain.  The  formida- 
ble military  and  naval  power  of  this  island,  and  the  ardent 
zeal  of  its  natives  against  the  Spaniards,  would  probably  have 
rendered  their  interference  fatal  to  the  cause  of  Philip  in  the 
Netherlands.  Their  hostilities  would  likewise  have  been  par- 
ticularly dangerous  in  the  Mediterranean.  Alexander  was  by 
no  means  indisposed  to  embrace  an  offer  so  flattering  to  his 
ambition,  and  so  agreeable  to  the  prejudices  of  his  subjects  ; 
nevertheless  he  declined  it,  and  though  the  motives  publicly 
assigned  for  so  doing,  were  built  upon  a  generous  regard  to 
the  faith  of  treaties  and  the  happiness  of  his  people,  which 
depended  on  the  continuance  of  peace,  the  real  motive  was  the 
offer  of  an  annual  subsidy  or  pension,  which  amounted  to  a 
larger  sum  than  the  possession  of  the  Netherlands  afforded 
him  any  prospect  of  obtaining  in  the  shape  of  clear  revenue. 
Alexander  was  a  subtle  politician,  and  had  indirectly  prompted 
the  revolted  states  to  make  this  application,  with  no  view  but 
to  extort  some  advantageous  concessions  from  Spain  as  the 
price  of  his  forbearance.  This  pension,  and  a  solemn  renuncia- 
tion of  certain  rights  in  Majorca,  was  the  consequence  of  this 
proceeding.  No  secret  was  made  of  the  latter,  and  no  small 
merit  was  arrogated  by  the  prince  in  exchanging  such  splendid 
prospects  for  his  own  family,  for  additional  security  and  happi- 
ness to  his  present  subjects. 

"  The  prince  had  many  motives  for  concealing  these  pecu- 
niar}^ arrangements  from  all  other  persons.  The  payments  an- 
nually made  were  therefore  presented  by  the  Spanish  minister 
himself  to  the  king,  without  the  presence  of  any  one  else, 
and  were  placed  by  the  latter  in  a  vault,  to  which  he  alone 
had  access.  When  he  found  his  end  approaching  he  called 
his  daughter  to  his  bed  side,  and  presenting  her  a  key,  di- 
rected her  to  the  depository  of  this  treasure,  and  exhorted 
her  to  observe  the  same  secrecy  with  regard  to  it  that  he 
had  done. 


'^4G 

"  Alexander  stipulated  with  the  Spaniards  that  this  gold 
should,  previously  to  being  sent  to  Carsol,  be  minted  into  ten 
crown  Carsol-pieces.  In  this  shape  they  were  received  from 
the  minister  and  deposited. 

*'  The  sum,  thus  transferred  to  the  new  queen  amounted  to 
500,000  crowns.  Agreably  to  her  solemn  promise  to  her  father 
she  carefully  concealed  the  source  of  those  disbursements  which 
she  made  from  this  fund.  She  was,  herself  entirely  a  stranger 
to  the  means  by  which  her  father  had  acquired  this  treasure. 
The  Spanish  minister,  who  had  been  the  medium  of  these 
payments,  had  been  superseded  by  another,  who  knew  nothing 
of  the  matter.  The  records  of  the  treasury  and  of  the  mint,  con- 
tained no  traces  of  it.  In  her  various  musings  on  this  subject, 
she  was  unable  to  form  any  other  conjecture  with  regard  to 
it,  than  that  her  father  possessed  the  secret  of  extracting  gold 
from  baser  materials.  His  known  attachment  to  chemical 
pursuits,  tended  to  confirm  her  in  this  opinion. 

"  As  her  friends  and  ministers  were  equally  ignorant  of  the 
source  of  her  supplies,  the  same  opinion  gradually  prevailed 
in  the  island  with  regard  to  herself.  She,  however,  spending 
none  of  her  time  in  the  laboratory,  and  maintaining  no  inter- 
course with  alchymists  could  only  be  supposed  to  acquire  this 
gold  by  supernatural  means.  It  was  ranked  among  the  nu- 
merous proofs  of  the  favour  with  which  she  was  regarded  by 
the  deity,  and  her  vanity  would  not  allow  her  to  discounten- 
ance this  inference. 

"  A  woman,  situated  like  Alexandra,  could  not  fail  to  be 
a  most  eligible  matrimonial  prize.  Innumerable  were  the 
wooers  who  aspired  to  the  honour  of  her  hand.  Kings  and 
nobles  contended  for  this  prize,  with  an  ardour  proportioned 
to  its  value.  Marriage  could  scarcely  be  of  more  importance 
to  her  own  happiness  than  to  that  of  her  subjects.  An  alli- 
ance with  a  foreign  potentate,  would  endanger  the  indepen- 
dance  of  the  island,  since  the  issue  of  such  a  marriage  would 
be  likely  to  unite  it  forever  with  his  own  kingdom.  Marriage 
on  the  contrary  with  one  of  her  own  subjects  could  produce 
no  inconvenience  but  sucii  as  might  arise  from  the  jealousies 
and  rivalships  of  candidates. 


247 

'*  The  kings  of  Carsol  were  regarded  by  themselves  and 
their  subjects  as  a  race  exalted  above  all  the  families  of  man- 
kind. As  the  lineal  and  indisputed  descendants  of  Charle- 
magne, they  claimed  the  throne  not  only  of  France,  but  of 
the  western  empire.  The  purity  of  the  race  had  been  re- 
markably preserved  ever  since  the  conquest,  by  restraining 
all  marriages  within  the  limits  of  the  family.  This  rule  had 
hitherto  experienced  no  exceptions,  and  the  custom  had  become 
a  law,  fundamental  and  inviolable. 

*'  Though  the  rank  and  power  of  this  princess  set  her  at 
least  upon  a  level  with  any  Eiuropean  sovereign,  this  impor- 
tant custom  raised  an  insuperable  bar  to  their  pretensions. 
Among  her  own  subjects  any  matrimonial  alliance  was  equal- 
ly impossible  but  with  those  descended  without  mixture  from 
the  first  Charles.  The  sanctity  and  privileges  annexed  to 
this  consanguinity,  whether  pure  or  mixed,  were  such  as  to  this 
relationship  a  matter  of  solemn  record  and  great  notorietv. 

"  A  peculiar  fatality  had  attended  the  Alexandrine  family. 
Each  of  the  princes  had  many  children.  These  children 
were  eminent  for  their  personal  or  mental  qualifications.  They 
were  altogether  worthy  of  their  family.  Their  lives  had  ex- 
tended to  the  customary  period,  but  the  son  by  v/hich  each 
prince  had  in  his  turn  been  succeeded,  was  the  only  one  of 
his  children  who  had  married  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  the 
crown  inheritable  by  his  descendants.  They  had  allied  them- 
selves to  persons,  some  one  of  whose  immediate  ancestors 
male  or  female,  was  an  alien  to  the  Martel  family. 

"  The  Carsen  whom  Alexandra  married,  was  the  next  in 
lawful  succession.  He  was  gentle,  modest,  unambitious,  and 
cheerfully  submitted  to  that  political  inferiority  which  even  af- 
ter her  marriage,  the  laws  imposed  upon  him. 

Rinaldo  Martel  was  the  great  grandson  of  the  second  Alex- 
ander, and  the  grandson  of  the  third  Alexander's  second  bro- 
ther, and  the  son  of  Alexandra's  cousin  Rinalda  Martilla.  This 
Rinaldo  was  nearly  of  the  same  age  with  the  queen  and  his 
cousin.  After  the  accession  of  the  queen,  her  cousin  being 
the  only  male  living  legally  qualified  for  marriage  with  her, 
was  naturallv  selected  by  the  public  wishes  for  such  an  alliance. 


248 

Alexandra  had  been  brought  up  with  this  relation  and  a  female 
Carsen,  descended  from  the  third  Alexander's  fourth  brother. 
Familiarity  had  produced  between  the  queen  and  her  cousin 
an  affection  void  of  passion  ;  but  between  Rinaldo  and  his 
other  cousin,  the  same  cause  had  pioduced  a  different  conse- 
quence. They  were  married,  and  their  only  child,  a  son  Rinal- 
do, was  born  in  the  third  year  of  Alexandra's  reign.  This  boy, 
being,  after  the  death  of  his  father,  which  happened  at  an  ear- 
ly age,  the  heir  apparent,  was  taken  by  the  queen  and  treated 
as  her  child  and  future  representative.  At  the  age  of  forty - 
three  Alexandra,  while  her  bloom  and  beauty  were  still  in 
their  prime,  married  Rinaldo,  and  one  year  after  had  a  son, 
who  promised  to  realize  all  the  beauty  and  wisdom  of  his  mo- 
ther. These  promises,  indeed,  were  not  ultimately  fulfilled  ; 
and  neither  did  her  husband?  who  quietly  succeeded  her,  re- 
duce to  practice  those  equitable  maxims  of  government  which 
he  embraced  with  ardour  in  speculation.  The  evils  which  af- 
terwards arose  from  the  indolence  and  facility  of  the  one,  and 
from  the  impetuous  passions  and  licentious  habits  of  the  other, 
could  not  be  conjectured  or  foreseen  by  Alexandra  or  her  peo- 
ple in  her  lifetime,  so  that  her  prospects  of  futurity  were  as 
brilliant  and  flattering  as  her  retrospects  of  the  past. 

"  This  princess  was  contemporary  Avith  Henry  IV,  and 
Lewis  XIII,  of  France ;  with  Philip  III  and  IV,  of  Spain  ; 
with  Elizabeth,  James  I,  and  Charles  I,  of  England.  The 
situation  of  her  kingdom  naturally  gave  birth  to  many  intimate 
relations  with  France,  Spain  and  Italy.  These  relations  were 
for  the  most  part  pacific  ;  since  her  ministers  maintained,  in 
full  vigour,  the  maxims  of  the  Alexandrine  princes.  In  so 
long  a  reign,  it  was  scarcely  possible  to  shun  all  occasions  of 
bickering  and  dispute  with  her  neighbours  :  but  on  all  such  oc- 
casions, she  conducted  herself  with  inflexible  caution  and  pru- 
dence ;  and  succeeded  in  maintaining  the  peace  and  neutrality 
of  her  kingdom  undisturbed.  Her  constancy,  like  that  of  her 
predecessor  was  assailed  by  promises,  intreaties,  menaces  and 
bribes,  but  nothing  could  induce  her  to  depart  from  her  neutral 
and  pacific  system  :  she  equally  refused  to  succour  rebels 
against  their  king,  or  kings  against  their  rebels  ;  but  willingly 


249  , 

entered  into  amicable  mercantile  engagements  with  any  of 
them. 

'« The  spirit  of  naval  enterprize  which  appeared  in  her  father's 
reign,  prevailed  very  much  in  this.  To  search  out  and  settle 
or  conquer  new  countries  in  the  western  hemisphere,  was  a 
passion  which  pervaded  many  bosoms,  but  could  never  get  any 
footing  in  hers.  The  example  of  Spain  and  Portugal,  the 
riches  of  their  mines  or  their  traffic,  formed  no  inducement  to 
her.  In  this  particular  her  caution  and  forbearance  were  some- 
what remarkable  ;  perhaps  she  was  liable  to  censure. 

"  In  an  early  part  of  her  father's  reign,  1576,  Serendib  had 
been  carefully  explored  by  some  Carsol  navigators,  and  a  com- 
pany of  merchants  and  adventurers  had  obtained  the  royal 
sanction  and  aid  to  a  scheme  of  settlement  and  conquest.  The 
scheme  was  adopted  with  views  and  conducted  upon  princi- 
ples widely  different  from  those  by  which  any  nation  had  been 
actuated. 

Nicolas  Nicolini  was  a  young  man  who,  in  a  voyage  to  In- 
dia in  a  Portuguese  vessel,  had  been  wrecked  upon  the  coast 
of  Serendib.  He  alone  had  escaped  destruction,  and  had  gain- 
ed extraordinary  favour  from  the  chief  who  ruled  in  that 
part  of  the  country  in  which  he  was  thrown.  Nicolas  united 
a  strong  and  active  mind  with  a  generous  temper,  and  his  in- 
genuity had  made  him  so  serviceable  and  venerable  in  the 
country,  that  his  influence  was  unbounded.  The  prince,  his 
patron,  was  the  most  powerful  sovereign  of  the  island,  and  Ni- 
colas, during  a  residence  of  ten  years,  obtained  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  country  and  its  inhabitants.  Having  an 
anxious  desire  to  return  home,  he  seized  the  opportunity  af- 
forded by  an  European  vessel  which  touched  at  the  island  for 
refreshments,  to  revisit  his  native  country.  He  obtained  per- 
mission to  do  this  by  promising  to  return,  and  to  bring  with 
him  certain  assistants  and  tools,  with  the  utility  of  which  he 
made  the  prince  acquainted.  On  reaching  home,  he  disco- 
vered that  his  parents  and  immediate  kindred  were  dead,  and 
his  return  being  prompted  by  affection  for  them,  he  easily  de- 
termined  to  comply    with   his   engagements.     His    patrimony 

39  * 


250 

being  embezzled  in  his  absence,  he  was  left  without  the  means 
of  accomplishing  his  voj-age.     In  order  to  obtain  justice,  he 
besought  an  interview  with  the  minister  of  justice.     This  min- 
ister was  a  man  of  a  visionary  and  enlightened  character,  and 
having  gained  from  Nicolas  a  particular  account  of  his  adven- 
tures  in  Serendib,  he  conceived  the  design  of  building  a  new 
and  grand  system  of  colonization  in  the  particulars  which  the 
voyager   communicated.       The    prince    warmly   adopted   his 
schemes,  and  their  execution  commenced  by  sending  back  Ni- 1 
colas  with  a  vessel  fully  provided  with  every  thing  which  the 
state  of  the  island  made  particularly  useful.    Natives  of  Carsol 
particularly  qualified  and  instructed,  were,  from  time  to  time, 
sent  out  to  Serendib  and  put  under  the  particular  direction  and 
controul  of  Nicolini.     By  a  wary  and  benevolent  system  of  pro- 
ceeding, this  adventurer  established  in  a  period  of  forty  years,  his 
authority  throughout  the  isle,  and  many  essential  improvements 
were  made  in  the  condition  of  the  islanders. .  From  that  period 
the  population  and  prosperity  of  the  country  have  been  continu- 
ally dvancing,  and  at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century  its 
inhabitants  have  arisen  to  the  number  of  one  hundred  millions. 
"  Alexandra  the  lawful  sovereign  of  these  adventurers,  was 
by  no  means  friendly  to  their  schemes.     Considerable  emigra- 
tions were  projected  to  this   island,  but  she  prohibited  them. 
By  this   rigour   she   prevented  Nicolina   from  being  made  a 
theatre  of  cruelty  and  suffering  similar  to  Peru  and  Mexico. 
She   embraced  the  councils  of  the   first   discoverer,  and  com- 
pelled her  ministers  to  confine  themselves  to  sending  out  from 
time   to  time   persons  qualified   in   the   manner  prescribed  by 
Nicolas. 

"  With  regai-d  to  this  island,  the  popular  opinions  and  wishes 
regarded  nothing  but  the  pecuniary  profit  to  which  the  possessor 
might  be  made  subservient,  and  the  conversion  of  the  natives  to 
the  true  faith.  By  reducing  the  natives  to  slavery  ;  by  compell- 
ing them  to  till  the  ground,  and  excavate  mines  for  the  benefit  of 
the  people  and  government  of  Carce  ;  they  expected  to  fulfil  all 
the  ends  of  the  wisest  policy.  To  take  formal  possession  of  the 
country  ;  to  secure  this  possession  by  a  military  force  :  to  allot 


251 

the  land  and  people,  in  absolute  property,  to  certain  persons,  who^ 
should  buy  the  privilege,  and  who  should  employ  the  labour  of 
the  natives,  either  in  digging  mines,  of  which  the  sovereign 
should  reserve  a  certain  portion  for  his  own  use,  or  in  raising 
products,  of  which  there  was  great  and  incessant  demand  in 
Europe,  was  the  scheme  familiar  to  the  practice  of  European  na- 
tions at  that  period.  The  importation  and  distribution  of  these 
products  being  confined  to  natives  of  Carce,  for  ever,  to  the 
agents  whom  the  sovereign  should  select  and  commission,  the 
wealth  that  would  thence  arise  would  benefit  Carsol  in  the  same 
manner  in  which  Venice  and  Portugal  had  been  benefitted  by 
their  foreign  acquisitions  and  monopolies. 

'*  From  the  first  discovery  of  Serendib  to  the  accession  of 
the  queen,  there  elapsed  about  sixty  years.  During  this  period 
the  plans  of  the  first  discoverer  and  his  son,  who  successively 
obtained  absolute  grants  of  the  island,  were  sedulously  and 
successfully  pursued,  in  consequence  of  which  the  real  popu- 
lation of  the  island  and  its  real  felicity  and  opulence  had  great- 
ly increased.  To  promote  these  ends,  agreeably  to  the  means 
prescribed  by  Nicolas,  the  princes  had  hitherto  allotted  some 
portion  of  their  time,  attention  and  revenues.  They  received  no 
pecuniary  recompense  from  all  these  efforts,  nor  did  they  aim 
at  any. 

Calosa  became  minister  of  revenue  in  the  first  year  of  Alex- 
ander the  Third.  He  was  a  man  of  great  integrity  and  parsimo- 
ny, and  under  his  care,  seconded  by  a  some  what  similar  dis- 
position in  his  master,  the  royal  income  was  much  increased. 
"Whatever  augmentation  might  be  made,  by  order  and  frugality 
in  proportioning  the  public  burthens,  and  in  collecting  and  dis- 
bursing them,  his  temper  led  him  to  make.  His  attention  was 
early  turned  to  Serendib,  and  his  mind  was  quickly  impressed 
with  the  vast  advantages  that  might  arise  from  a  system  of  co- 
lonial management,  widely  different  from  that  which  he  found 
adopted. 

He  found  that  fertile  Island,  with  eight  millions  of  inhabi- 
tants reduced  to  absolute  submission  under  a  s.ubject  of  Carsol, 
who  held  his  power  by  virtue  of  a  patent  from.his  sovereign.  This 


252 

delegate  had  pursued  a  scheme  of  government,  by  which,  indeed, 
the  numbers  of  his  subjects  were  augmented,  and  their  social 
condition  was  greatly  improved,  but  in  which  the  usual  ends  of 
colonial  establishments,  were  entirely  neglected.  These  ends 
were  additional  riches  and  power  to  the  parent  state,  by  taxes 
levied  directly  on  the  persons  and  industry  of  the  planters  or 
cultivators;  or  bv  the  exclusive  enjoyment  of  their  trade.  In- 
stead of  labouring  after  these  advantages,  the  system  hitherto 
pursued  had  no  direct  tendency  to  enrich  even  the  colonists 
themselves,  and  the  parent  state  was  in  reality  subjected  to  a 
constant  and  unrequited  expense  both  of  men  and  money.  The 
great  objects  of  Nicolas  appeared  to  be  no  more  than  to  increase 
the  quantitv  of  cultivated  ground ;  to  multiply  the  number  of 
the  cultivators ;  to  secure  to  them  the  fruits  of  their  industry  and 
ingenuity;  to  create  new  motives  to  labour  and  invention;  to 
bind  every  part  of  his  empire  in  the  bonds  of  harmony  and 
peace ;  and  to  compel  the  observance  of  these  m.axims  among  the 
delegates  of  his  authority.  He  sought  to  establish  an  internal 
and  independant  power  in  the  Island,  and  gradually  to  dissolve 
all  connection  with  Europe.  To  these  singular  maxims  he  had 
gained  the  approbation  and  concurrence  of  the  two  first  Alex- 
anders, and  by  marvellous  constancy  and  energy  had  even  in 
his  own  life  time,  accomplished  the  most  extensive  revolutions. 
Just  before  the  death  of  the  second  Alexander  he  died,  after 
obtaining  the  renewal  of  his  charter  in  favour  of  his  son. 

Alexander  the  Third  lent  a  favourable  ear  to  the  memorials  of 
his  minister,  who  advised  him  to  anul  the  charter  given  to  the 
younger  Nicolas ;  to  appoint  governors  and  officers  who  should 
be  animated  with  more  simple  and  wordly  views,  and  who 
should  hold  their  power  from  himself  and  at  his  own  pleasure: 
to  levy  taxes  on  the  people  :  to  open  mines  and  establish  trading 
companies,  from  the  profit  of  whose  dealings  some  advantage 
might  accrue  to  his  own  purse.  These  councils  sufficiently 
agreeable  to  tlie  prince's  inclinations,  he  was  prevented  from 
adopting,  first  by  a  regard  to  the  obligations  of  his  own  charter, 
and  secondly,  ljy  an  apj)rehension  of  the  power  and  resources  of 
his  present  delegate.     As  Nicolas'  commiission  would  expire 


253 

with  his  life,  he  thought  it  most  prudent  to  wait  for  thatnatnral 
termination,  and  meanwhile  to  prevent  Nicolas  from  taking 
any  measures  to  effect  the  future  independence  of  his  colony, 
to  conceal  carefully  his  own  views,  and  affect  entire  satisfacr 
tion  in  the  methods  already  settled. 

"  One  of  the  earliest  affairs  which  came  under  considera- 
tion with  the  new  queen,  was  the  mode  to  be  pursued  with 
regard  to  Serendib.  Her  treasury  continued,  during  her  life, 
under  the  care  of  Calosa,  and  this  minister  renewed  his  ap- 
plications to  her,  on  that  subject,  with  a  confidence  inspired 
by  her  youth  and  inexperience.  She  would  probably  have  ul- 
timately embraced  his  views,  enforced  as  they  were  by  a 
good  deal  of  misrepresentation,  had  not  Nicolas  himself  revisit- 
ed his  country  at  this  period.  He  had  been  apprized  of  the 
machinations  of  his  enemies,  and,  in  the  acccession  of  a  new 
queen,  resolved  to  counteract  these  plans  in  person  :  notwith- 
standing all  the  efforts  of  those  whose  interest  or  policy  de- 
manded his  destruction,  he  obtained  the  confidence  and  appro- 
bation of  the  youthful  queen  ;  and  returned  to  Sei-endib  with 
the  strongest  assurances  of  her  favour. 

"  The  heart  of  Alexandra  was  the  seat  of  divine  philanthro- 
py. If  she  failed  to  benefit  her  subjects  in  the  degree  to 
which  her  poxver  was  equal,  this  must  be  ascribed  to  defect  of 
knowledge  and  not  of  inclination.  With  regard  to  Serendib 
her  wisdom  very  far  exceeded  the  wisdom  of  the  age  in  which 
she  lived  ;  but  for  this  she  was  indebted  to  the  instructions  of 
Nicolas  ;  the  benevolence  and  justice  of  whose  plans,  her  heart 
and  understanding  cordially  approved.  Her  perceptions  and  re- 
solutions on  this  head  were  too  strong  to  be  shaken  by  the  re- 
monstrances and  artifices  of  her  councellors.  Whatever  mea- 
sures Nicolas  dictated  for  extinguishing'*  the  claims  and  pre- 
venting the  interference  of  her  successors,  she  cheerfully 
adopted. 

"  Her  immediate  successors,  her  husband  and  son,  were 
animated  by  views  very  different  from  her's.  Though  of 
tempers  not  ungenerous,  or  mercenary,  their  ministers  and 
minions  pursuaded  them   to  believe  that  their  claims  as  sove- 


254 

reigns  of  Serendib  were  founded  in  justice  and  religioij. 
The  younger  Nicolas  died,  after  naming  his  successors,  agree- 
ably to  the  warrant  of  his  charter.  He  formed  a  sovereign 
pouncil  or  senate  of  twenty-five,  to  be  renewed  by  their  own 
election,  and  devolved  upon  this  council  the  absolute  power 
which  he  had  exercised.  This  senate  though  carefully  mo- 
delled, by  no  means  possessed  the  energy  and  wisdom  of  the 
two  first  governors.  They  made  a  strenuous,  but  unsuccess- 
ful opposition  to  the  claims  of  the  parent  state. 

"  Nicolas  Minermi  had  only  one  son.  All  the  care  and 
attention  bestowed  upon  this  son,  were  insufficient  to  make 
him  worthy  of  his  father.  Though  upright  and  innocent,  he 
was  destitute  of  vigilance,  activity  and  energy.  His  slender 
talents  were  unaccompanied  by  insolence  or  presumption,  and 
he  readily  acquiesced  in  the  arrangements  made  by  his  father 
for  securing  the  prosperity  of  Serendib.  Shortly  before 
his  father's  decease,  and  at  his  request,  he  returned  to 
Carsol  where  he  passed  the  rest  of  his  life  in  peace  and  re- 
tirement. 

"  The  period  succeeding  the  death  of  Alexandra,  occupied 
by  the  reigns  of  her  husband,  her  son,  and  by  the  minority  of 
her  grandaughter,  a  period  of  fifty  years,  exhibited  a  scene  of 
ruin  and  decay,  both  in  Carsol  and  Serendib.  The  latter 
country  was  desolated  by  a  tedious  civil  war  of  twenty  years, 
in  which  the  population  and  treasures  of  Carsol  were  irrepa- 
rably wasted.  The  tyranny  and  misgovernment  which  sue-: 
ceeded  the  final  conquest  of  the  island,  contributed  still  fur- 
ther to  its  decline ;  and  the  wealth  and  luxury  which  ac- 
crued to  the  parent   state  was  transitory   and  pernicious. 

*'  The  military  and  religious  order  of  Nica,  founded  by  the 
first  Alexander,  in  1522,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  defending 
their  native  islands  from  invaders  had  flourished,  in  great 
splendour,  during  the  sixteenth  century.  Their  primitive  in- 
stitutions were  from  those  times  improved  and  enlarged,  and  un- 
der the  reign  of  Alexandra  they  attained  to  their  highest  vi- 
gour and  perfection.  The  members  of  this  order  exceeded 
thirty  thousand.      Their  existence  and  celebrity  had  alone  uc- 


255 

nompUshed  the  purpose  of  their  institution,  by  intimidating 
every  enemy. 

"  The  prince  of  Carce  as  the  head  of  the  order,  had  hither- 
to receiv^ed  the  education  peculiar  to  it,  and  was  in  many  res- 
pects subjected  to  its  rules  and  discipline.  When  the  crown 
came  into  possession  of  a  female,  some  of  the  rules  of  the  order 
with  respect  to  the  head  of  it,  were  necessarily  relaxed,  since 
a  female  was  disqualified  by  her  sex  from  some  of  its  duties. 
Alexandra  was  extremely  ambitious  of  performing  all  the  du- 
ties of  a  chief  of  the  Nica,  and  though  her  sex  was  an  insu- 
perable impediment  to  her  zeal,  she  did  not  alloAv  it  to  form  an 
excuse  for  indolence  or  inattention  or  indulgence.  She  was 
even  supposed  to  have  gone  beyond  the  limits  rigidly  prescrib- 
ed by  her  sex,  in  her  efforts  to  perform  all  the  duties  of  her 
station.  In  these  departments  of  that  office,  which  were  im- 
possible to  be  performed  in  person,  she  was  obliged  to  act  by 
deputy.  This  deputy  was,  in  some  respects,  a  lieutenant  or 
substitute  ;  and  after  her  zeal  in  this  respect  was  somewhat 
cooled  by  age,  and  by  domestic  pleasures,  this  deputy  became 
more  powerful  and  independent.  The  profound  peace. of  the 
country,  the  luxurious  taste  of  the  queen  and  her  court,  in- 
sensibly weakened  the  springs  of  this  machine. '  The  separa- 
tion between  the  throne  and  the  headship  of  the  order,  was 
completed  in  the  reign  of  her  successor,  whose  voluptuous 
and  studious  indolence  made  him  averse  to  the  active  service 
of  this  order. 

"  This  order  was  naturally  employed  to  re-establish  the  Car- 
sol  power  in  Serendib.  The  waste  produced  by  war  and  cli- 
mate, required  recruits  to  be  procured  with  unusual  rapidity. 
Hence  those  qualifications  in  a  candidate,  formerly  insisted 
on,  were  dispensed  with,  and  the  primitive  vigour  and  spirit  of 
the  institution,  almost  entirely  vanished.  The  knowledge, 
temperance  and  physical  constitution,  were  found  in  some 
degi'ee  incompatible  with  the  exigences  of  actual  military  ser- 
vice. The  degeneracy  of  half  a  century,  however,  the  total 
change  of  climate  and  situation,  were  not  sufficient  totally  to 
obliterate  the  strong  impressions  made  by  the  institutions  of 


256 

the  first  founder.  Courage,  or  an  indifference  to  life  and  sub- 
ordination were  principles  which  survived  the  fall  of  almost, 
all  others. 

<'  When  Serendib  first  became  the  theatre  of  commotion 
and  war,  it  had  been  in  the  quiet  possession  of  the  Carce,  an 
hundred  years,  and  maintained  a  population  of  thirty  millions. 
The  policy  of  the  first  Nicolas  enjoined  upon  every  emigrant  of 
Carsol,  whom  he  allowed  to  enter  the  island,  to  marry  a  native 
of  the  country  and  in  some  respects,  to  conform  to  their  language 
and  manners.  All  political  authority  he  had  limited  to  the 
male  descendants  of  such  marriage.  He  had  thus  created  a 
sort  of  ambiguous  nation,  named  Nicolini,  whose  separation 
from  their  ancient  country  was  as  imperfect  as  their  connec- 
tion with  their  new.  This  cast  exceeded  half  a  million  of 
persons,  and  were  all  bound  together  by  the  strictest  laws 
of  political  obedience,  and  to  their  vassals  by  the  ties  of 
kindred  and  similitude  of  interests  and  manners.  To  this 
cast,  the  offices  of  government  and  the  use  of  arms  were 
confined. 

'<  The  final  triumph  of  the  Nica  over  this  populous  empire 
must  be  ascribed  to  the  union,  hardihood  and  military  skill  of 
this  order.  Their  triumph  was  indeed  delayed  for  thirty  years, 
and  every  year  during  that  period,  detachments  arrived  from 
Europe,  amounting  annually  to  five  thousand  men.  The  ad- 
verse armies  were  likewise  recruited  from  the  class  of  natives, 
and  dexterous  politicians  had  contrived  to  make  the  natives 
themselves  instrumental  to  their  own  subjection.  At  the  con- 
clusion of  this  war,  it  was  satisfactorily  computed  that  1000 
natives  of  Carsol  had  fallen  by  the  sword  alone  ;  half  a  mil- 
lion of  Nicolini,  who  were  almost  entirely  extirpated,  and  five 
millions  of  natives  engaged  on  one  side  or  the  other.  The 
general  ruin  may  be  estimated  when  we  mention  that  in 
1625,  the  population  was  reduced  to  ten  millions,  or  one 
third  of  the  number  living  at  the  commencement  of  these 
troubles. 

"  Alexander  Minermi  was  the  son  of  the  third  Nicolas 
Minermi,  and  born,  at  his  father's  castle  in  Carsol,   in  1640. 


257 

He  was  educated  with  great  care,  under  his  father's  roof,  who 
died  in  1657,  when  his  son  was  seventeen  years  of  age.  This 
event  made  the  son  master  of  his  conduct.  Shortly  after  he 
left  the  island,  and  spent  fifteen  years  abroad.  During  this 
period,  he  visited  every  part  of  Europe,  and  spent  four  years 
in  Niclan.  This  part  of  his  life  was  a  busy  and  eventful 
scene,  in  which  his  fortitude,  and  talents  were  tried  by  num- ' 
berless  incidents. 

'*  Of  the  system  of  his  great  ancestor,  the  founder  of  the 
Niclan  empire,  he  became  a  passionate  admirer,  and  longed  for 
an  opportunity  of  restoring  a  country,  which  he  considered  as 
his  proper  inheritance,  to  its  pristine  glory.  With  a  view  of 
procuring  some  official  station  in  the  island,  by  which  he  might 
be  enabled  to  accomplish  his  arduous  purposes,  he  returned  re- 
luctantly to  Carsol,  at  the  age  of  thirty-five.  At  this  time, 
the  kingdom  was  exposed  to  many  evils,  in  consequence  of  the 
tui'bulence  and  tj'ranny  of  the  primate  who  had  been  appoint- 
ed by  the  late  prince  the  guardian  of  his  daughter.  Her  ma- 
jority was  fixed  at  the  age  of  eighteen.  She  was  now  only  thir- 
teen years  of  age.  When  her  majority  was  completed,  she 
married  Alexander  Minermi  Martelo,  who  became  thence- 
forth absolute  master  of  the  Carsol  territories,  foreign  and  do- 
mestic, and  who  revived  with  new  lustre  the  Alexandrine 
age. 

*'  The  life  of  this  prince  was  spent  in  repairing  the  evils 
which  had  multiplied  under  the  two  last  reigns,  both  in  Car- 
sol and  Niclan,  and  in  perfecting  institutions  to  which  every 
former  age  had  been  a  stranger.  Every  obstacle  to  the 
prosperity  of  the  colonies  and  mother  country  were  remov- 
ed, and  the  same  maxims  being  adopted  by  his  successor, 
the  dominions  of  Carsol  rapidly  advanced  to  an  height  of 
riches,  power  and  felicity,  which  made  them  the  wonder  of 
mankind. 

"  In  173r,  John  Gustor,  the  last  of  the  Medicean  princes  of 
Tuscany,  died  without  heirs.  By  testament  he  left  his  do- 
minions to  the  prince  of  Carsol,  and  in  this  bequest  the  neigh- 
bouring powers  after  some  negociation  and  demur,  were  oblig- 


258 

ed  to  acquiesce.  His  great  reputation  for  wisdom  and  ener- 
gy ;  the  zealous  wishes  of  the  Tuscans  ;  the  inclinations  of  the 
reigning  prince,  who,  during  his  life,  delivered  his  fortresses 
to  the  Carce,  and  thereby  greatly  facilitated  the  execution  of 
his  will,  induced  the  neighbouring  potentates  to  submit  to  this 
arrangement.  Tuscany  and  the  two  isles  were  united  under 
one  head,  and  the  labour  of  seventy  years  was  directed  to  ce- 
ment their  union  ;  to  reduce  to  the  same  model,  the  manners 
and  institutions  of  all  the  parts  of  his  extensive  empire." 

The  remarks  with  which  I  prefaced  the  "  Sketches  of  a  His- 
tory of  Carsol,"  will  apply  to  the  next  selection  made  and  print- 
ed for  this  volume,  which  I  shall  call  "  Sketches  of^the  History  of 
the  Carrils  and  Ormes." 

In  this  work  Mr.  Brown  has  indulged  his  passion  for  archi- 
tectural study.  How,  or  when  first  he  imbibed  his  ardent  love 
for  architecture  I  never  knew.  He  would  sit  for  a  whole  day 
with  his  compasses  and  pencil  absorbed  in  planning  a  mansion,  a 
castle  or  a  cathedral ;  or  in  examining  the  proportions  of  some 
celebrated  building  of  remote  ages. 

The  "  Sketches  of  a  History  of  Carsol,"  and  the  "  Sketches 
of  the  History  of  the  Carrils  and  Ormes"  must  be  considered  as 
parts  of  plans  of  extensive  works  of  imagination  in  which  histo- 
rical facts  are  mingled  and  the  air  of  history  imitated.  Pan.i  of 
these  plans  are  necessarily  more  finished  than  others,  and  the  au- 
thor doubtless  intended  to  have  seen  his  plans  complete  before 
he  began  the  task  of  filling  up  all  the  parts  and  putting  the  last 
hand  to  his  work.  It  will  be  seen  that  an  Utopian  system  of 
manners  and  government  ^Yas  to  complete  the  whole. 

In  his  earlier  works  he  did  not  proceed  in  this  systematic 
manner.  He  began  to  write  a  novel  after  having  only  deter-' 
mined  upon  one  leading  circumstance,  character  or  idea,  and 
trusted  to  the  growth  of  one  incident  from  another,  and  the 
appropriate  sentiments  from  the  incidents.  One  volume  would 
be  finished  and  printed  before  he  had  formed  any  plan  for  the 
beginning  of  the  second,  or  any  plan  for  the  continuation,  de- 
velopemcnt  or  denouement  of  the  story. 


259 

The  first  novel  he  wrote  was  entitled  "  Sky  Walk."  It  was 
never  published,  owing  to  the  death  of  the  printer,  who  had  un- 
dertaken to  publish  it  at  his  own  risk.  INIr.  Brown  being  then 
altogether  unknown  to  the  public,  and  the  work,  nearly  print- 
ed being  left  with  executors,  who  did  not  choose  to  finish  it 
and  would  not  or  could  not  sell  the  sheets  for  such  price,  as 
Mr.  Brown's  friends  thought  proper  to  offer  for  them.  After 
Charles  had  made  New  York  his  place  of  residence,  he  in- 
corporated parts  of  "  Sky  ^Valk"  into  other  works  of  imagina- 
tion, as  his  memory  retained  them.  In  Edgar  Huntley,  for 
example,  the  wild  district  of  Norwalk,  had  its  prototype  in 
Sky- Walk. 

It  is  very  evident  that  this  unsystematic  mode  of  composi- 
tion must  give  a  motley  appearance  to  works  so  written.  The 
parts  must  occasionally  be  disproportloned  to  each  other,  and 
incidents  imagined  which  excite  great  expectations  in  the  read- 
er, and  involve  the  story  in  myster}',  which  the  author  trusting 
lo  after  thought  for  the  explanation  or  the  sequel,  and  not  find- 
ing, when  the  printer  called  for  the  remaining  copy^  any  ade- 
quate solution  of  difficulty  or  termination  of  adventure,  the 
event  either  does  not  answer  the  expectation  raised,  or  the 
reader  is  put  off  with  the  intimation  of  a  continuation  at  a  fu- 
ture time. 

Wieland,  the  first  no\-el  which  Mr.  Brown  published,  and 
which  I  shall  hereafter  speak  of  more  at  large,  has  a  more 
complete  developement  of  plot  than  the  others  ;  but  even  in 
Wieland  an  opening  is  left  to  pursue  his  subject  still  further, 
as  his  future  leisure  or  inclination  might  dictate. 

It  may  be  said  that  all  the  works  of  imagination  which 
Mr.  Brown  has  given  to  the  public  remain  in  this  unfinished 
state.  Though  the  curiosity  which  is  excited  is  not  fully 
gratified,  yet  they  one  and  all  speak  in  a  language  more  for- 
cible than  panegyric  can  convey,  the  varied  talents  of  the  au- 
thor. It  has  been  truly  observed  of  him,  that  "  whether  he 
lets  himself  loose  in  the  region  of  argumentative  speculation, 
or  ranges  the  field  of  fancy,  he  is  in  either  case  perfectly  at 
home." 


/'  260 

,'  • 

The  writer  from  whom  the  above  quotation  is  borrowed 
when  speaking  of  Mr.  Brown's  novels  has  the  following  pas- 
sages. *'iThe  reader  accompanies  him  step  by  step  throughout  the 
whole  labyrinth  of  his  mysteries,  with  an  expectation  of  finding 
them  eventually  cleared  up.  As  he  proceeds,  however,  his  at- 
tention is  arrested  by  still  further  novelties,  which  are  brought 
forward  to  explain  the  preceding,  and  which  themselves  require 
the  same  explanation.  At  the  end  he  closes  the  volume  with 
a  mind  still  unsatisfied.  The  author  was  often  asked  by  his 
friends,  when  he  proposed  to  elucidate  the  mysteries  with  which 
his  w^orks  of  fancy  abounded,  to  which  he  would  give  some 
sportive  reply,  plainly  intimating  that  he  considered  it  a  matter 
of  perfect  indifference  whether  this  task  was  ever  accomplished 
or  not.  He  seemed  to  consider  the  curiosity  of  his  readers  as 
an  engine  in  his  hands,  which  he  might  play  upon  for  his 
amusement  merely,  and  relinquish  when  he  was  tired  of  such 
sport. 

From  this  cause,  all  his  works  of  a  fanciful  character  pre- 
sent to  the  eye  this  chequered  and  motley  appearance.  One 
mystery  gives  hint  to  another,  and  the  reader  is  finally  left  in 
the  lurch  wondering  how  the  last  was  intended  to  have  been 
elucidated.  He  must  not  be  surprised,  therefore,  if  in"  the 
unfinished  works  of  the  author,  he  finds  them  bearing  the 
same  cast  of  character  with  the  productions  which  he  gave  to 
the  world.  It  is  equally  obvious  that  an  attempt  to  explain 
what  the  author  had  particularly  in  view  in  these  unfinished 
manuscripts,  must  always  remain  a  mystery,  since  it  is  im« 
possible  to  trace  out  what  his  intentions  were  beyond  what  is 
now  left  us.  Indeed  this  perpetual  intrusion  of  novelty  to  ex- 
plain a  novelt}',  has  been  one  of  the  principal  objections  to  the 
writings  of  this  author,  where  fancy  has  been  consulted.  The 
reader  becomes  fatigued  with  so  fruitless  a  chace,  and  some- 
what resembles  the  Trojan  Hero  attempting  to  embrace  the 
shade  of  his  father, 

"  Terconatus  ihi  collo  dare  bracchia  circum  ; 
Tel'  frustra  comprensa  manu  eflTugit  imago 
Par  levibus  ventls  volucvique  simiilima  some" 


261 

The  author  considered  all  his  fanciful  works  as  mere  matters 
of  reoreation  and  amusement.  As  long  as  his  imagination  was 
prolific  in  blossoms,  he  scattered  them  with  the  same  prodigal 
profusion.  When  this  light  employment  was  accomplished, 
he  patiently  waited  for  the  seasons  of  blooms  to  return  without 
endeavouring  to  arrange  those  Avhich  he  had  already  collected 
into  a  beautiful  bouquet.  Such  were  the  precise  ideas  which 
this  author  formed  of  his  works  of  this  character.  He  declar- 
ed to  a  friend  who  visited  him,  and  took  down  one  of  the 
volumes  to  peruse,  that  he  might  save  himself  such  a  needless 
expenditure  of  time  and  trouble,  and  take  the  word  of  the 
author  that  the  work  was  not  worth  a  perusal.  If  he  had 
thought  more  seriously  on  such  subjects,  and  taken  time  to 
weave  the  various  threads  of  the  narrative  into  one  consistent 
web,  no  question  can  remain  of  his  capacity  to  excel  in  this 
department  of  letters.  His  novels  are  therefore  evidences  of 
what  he  7night  have  done,  not  of  what  he  has  accomplished. 
It  was  the  excess  of  his  genius  that  prevented  him  from  excel- 
ling. He  loads  his  heroes  with  incredible  and  mysterious  ad- 
ventures, trusting  to  the  fruitfulness  of  his  own  fancy  to  find 
the  means  of  extrication.  When  he  is  sensible  himself  that 
this  incident  is  insufficient  for  such  purposes,  he  pours  forth 
so  much  energy  of  pathos  that  the  reader  in  spite  of  his  better 
judgment  yields  to  momentary  conviction.  Before  his  effer- 
vescence cools,  and  before  the  reader  can  look  about  him,  he 
finds  himself  on  the  brink  of  another  catastrophe." 

Before  writing  the  '  Sketches  of  a  History  of  Carsol,'  and 
'  Sketches  of  a  History  of  the  Carrils  and  Ormes,'  Mr.  Brown 
had  seen  the  inconveniences  and  mischief  arising  from  his  first 
mode,  and  I  doubt  not  but  he  would  have  given  in  these 
works,  if  he  had  lived  to  finish  and  fill  up  his  plans,  volumes 
which  would  have  delighted,  instructed  and  satisfied  the 
reader. 


SKETCHES 

OF  A  HISTORY  OF  THE  CARRILS  AND  ORMES. 


"  St.  Arthur  Carril  was  buried,  1^11,  iu  the  abbey  of  St.  Ei- 
mer,  in  pursuance  of  his  own  solemn  request.  The  monks  of 
Canterbury  were  extremely  loath  to  give  up  the  honour  and  ad- 
vantage of  possessing  his  tomb.  They  even  for  a  short  time, 
entertained  the  resolution  of  burying  him  in  their  church,  but 
having  assembled  to  fix  upon  the  time  and  manner  of  his  inter- 
ment, he  is  said  to  have  suddenly  appeared  among  them,  and  re- 
peated the  injunctions  he  had  given  them  while  living.  They 
no  longer  hesitated  to  obey.  An  instrument,  averring  this  pre- 
ternatural appearance,  and  signed  by  all  the  members  of  the  con- 
vent who  were  present,  is  siill  preserved  in  the  treasury  at 
Bel  minster. 

"  His  body,  after  being  skilfully  embalmed,  was  transported 
in  solemn  and  magnificent  procession  to  Belminster.  A  chapel, 
shortly  after  was  built  for  it,  adjoining  the  principal  church,  and 
it  was  there  buried.  The  honours  of  this  new  Saint,  speedily 
eclipsed  those  of  Arthur  the  king.  The  fame  and  worship  of 
the  ancient  Arthur,  had  never  travelled  much  further  than  the 
bounds  of  his  own  diocese,  but  the  renown  of  the  new  divinity 
spread  not  only  throughout  England,  but  throughout  all  Chris- 
tendom. Pilgrims  visited  his  shrine  from  the  remotest  coun- 
tries, and  no  divine  personage  attested  his  influence  in  Heaven, 
by  more  numerous  and  signal  miracles.  The  sacred  college, 
seemed  indeed  to  exhaust  their  ingenuity  in  devising  honours 
for  this  saint.  The  diocese  of  Carthew,  was  exempted  from 
the  jurisdiction  of  tlie  English  primate,  which  had  never  be- 
fore been  legally  abolished.  The  election  of  the  bishop  was 
vested  absolutely  in  the  convent,  exempt  from  the  controul,  both 
of  the  earl  and  pope.     Their  election,  according  to  a  form  pre- 


263 

scribed  to  them,  was  to  supercede  all  application  to  the  pope, 
and  was  to  be  in  all  respects  absolute  and  final,  and  acquitted 
of  all  payments  and  dues  to  a  superior  power,  as  much  as  the 
pope  himself  when  chosen  by  the  cardinals  ;  provided  only  that 
the  choice  was  to  be  limited  to  the  descendants  of  the  martyr, 
who  should  be  in  orders,  and  of  the  canonical  age.  The  bishop 
was  invested  with  all  the  spiritual  prerogatives  of  the  Roman 
pontiffs,  within  his  diocese,  and  was  in  all  respects  whatever  to 
stand  in  relation  to  the  ecclesiastical  affairs  of  the  diocese,  in 
place  of  the  pope  himself. 

"  A  jubilee  was  at  the  same  time  ordained  to  take  place  every 
fifty  years,  at  Carthew,  to  open  on  the  eve  of  the  anniversary 
of  the  Saint's  death,  that  is  to  say,  on  the  thirtieth  of  Decem- 
ber, and  to  continue  three  months.  All  pilgrims,  who,  during 
this  period,  visited  the  tomb  of  the  Saint,  and  standing  before 
it  with  clasped  hands,  and  uplifted  eyes,  chaunted  the  words  of 
Simeon,  "  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace, 
&c."  These  words  were  adopted  because,  according  to  the  le- 
gend, when  the  deified  bishop  was  about  ten  years  old,,  he  ac- 
companied his  mother  on  a  festival  to  the  shrine  of  St.  Arthur, 
and  the  abbot,  coming  from  the  akar  after  divine  service,  was 
struck  with  the  appearance  of  the  child,  whom,  though  he 
was  his  nephew,  he  had  now  seen  for  the  first  time,  and  taking 
him  in  his  arms,  repeated  the  saying  of  Simeon.  After  this,  the 
pilgrim  was  bound  to  go  round  the  nine  elder  churches  of  Car- 
thew, and  repeat  the  same  words,  at  the  altar  in  each  church, 
dedicated  to  the  new  Saint.  At  each  altar,  he  received  from 
the  attendant  minister,  a  small  card,  to  serve  as  a  certificate  of 
his  having  performed  this  ceremony.  With  these  he  was,  on 
the  ensuing  day,  to  return  to  the  great  church,  and  again  to  per- 
form the  ceremony  already  mentioned.  He  was  then  entitled 
to  receive  a  copper  medal  or  token,  for  which  he  made  a  dona- 
tion to  the  chest  of  Saxon  or  Norman  money  of  the  times.  This 
was  a  silver  coin,  weighing  one  twentieth  of  an  ounce,  or  equal 
in  weight  to  a  fourth  of  a  modern  shilling.  The  token  was 
originally  gratuitous,  but  the  pilgrims  generosity  always  gave 
something  in  exchange,  till  at  length  custom  mad-*    this   sum 


264 

obligatory  upon  all,  though  the  pilgrim  might,  if  he  pleased, 
and  generally  did,  give  more. 

"  St.  Arthur's  jubilee  was  celebrated  in  the  following  years  in 
regular  succession,  1226,  1276,  1326,  1376,  1426,  1476,  1526. 
At  all  these  times  there  was  a  great  concourse  of  pilgrims,  not 
only  from  all  parts  of  England,  but  of  Christendom.  The 
number  varied  according  to  the  circumstances  of  the  times, 
but  the  lowest  number  exceeded  thirty  thousand,  while  the 
highest  number  rose  as  high  as  73,000.  The  greatest  number 
of  pilgrims,  is  said  to  have  occurred  in  the  jubilee  of  1426,  when 
Henry  Fifth,  was  crowned  at  Paris,  and  returning  to  England, 
visited  this  shrine,  at  th^  head  of  all  his  nobles.  St.  Arthur, 
was  the  kind's -fevourite  patron,  to  v^^hom  he  believed  himself 
indebted  for  his  recent  successes.  Ke  had  visited  this  shrine, 
previous  to  his  expedition,  and  vowed  to  signalize  his  gratitude, 
should  he  meet  with  success,  by  the  most  splendid  donations. 
He  now  performed  his  vow,  by  confirming  and  enlarging  the 
privileges  of  the  sec,  by  granting  to  the  convent  the  town  and 
lordship  of  Montaubin,  in  Guyenne,  a  district  about  equal  in 
extent  to  the  lordship  of  Carthew,  which  belonged  to  the  bishop. 
The  Guyenne  estate  was  to  be  the  peculiar  property  of  the 
convent,  represented  in  most  cases  by  the  prior.  King  Henry 
procured  a  confirmation  of  this  grant,  from  the  supreme  pon- 
tiff, by  whom  Montaubin  was  dedicated  to  St.  Arthur,  and 
made  a  separate  sovereignty  vested  in  the  prior  of  Carthew, 
and  his  successors  jointly  with  the  convent.  The  estate  con- 
sisted of  a  town  of  a  thousand  houses,  and  adistrict  of  123  square 
miles.  The  cathedral  was  rebuilt,  and  dedicated  1430,  anew  to 
St.  Arthur.  The  ecclesiastical  dignities  including  the  bishop, 
whose  diocese  extended  over  the  modern  department  of  Avey- 
ron,  and  was  consequently  about  equal  to  the  English  counties 
of  Kent  or  Suffolk,  was  filled  with  such  as  had  been  members 
of  the  English  convent.  The  possession  continued  in  this 
house  till  the  English  dominion  in  this  quarter  M'as  entirely 
subverted.  None  of  these  changes  were  acceptable  to  the  peo- 
ple of  the  lordship,  and  all  traces  of  them  were  industriously 
obliterated  after  the  expulsion  of  the  English. 


265 

In  the  year  1421,  the  number  of  pilgrims  from  Bevernshire 
alone,  was  about  18,000,  from  the  rest  of  England  about  30,000, 
and  from  foreign  countries,  about  500Q,  amounting  in  the 
whole,  to  53,000  persons.  The  pecuniary  donations  amounted  to 
thirty-five  thousand  pounds,  a  sum  whose  actual  value  in  those 
day*,  was  immense. 

It  gradually  became  a  custom,  obligatory  on  all  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Bevernshire,  to  visit  Beverly  at  the  annual  festival  of 
St.  Arthur,  and  pei"form  their  donations  at  the  shrine  of  the 
new  Saint.  This  was  at  first  only  a  meritorious  pilgrimage, 
the  omission  of  which  was  culpable  by  no  law,  but  it  finally 
degenerated  into  a  sort  of  obligation,  without  performing  which 
the  people  incurred  ecclesiastical  censures.  The  evidence  of 
their  performance,  was  a  copper  token,  for  which  they  paid  a 
penny,  or  as  much  more  as  they  thought  proper.  As  many 
through  poverty,  infirmity,  sickness  or  age,  were  unable  to 
perform  this  duty,  the  custom  arose  of  granting  a  dispensation 
to  such,  the  token  being  sold  to  them  at  their  own  homes,  or 
at  their  parish  churches,  and  all  the  virtue  of  ihe  pilgrimage, 
came  at  length  to  be  considered  as  centering  in  the  purchase 
of  the  token.  The  benefits  resulting  from  the  possession  of 
this  token  were  supposed  to  redound  to  persons  of  all  ages,  con- 
sequently an  annual  token  was  purchased  for  each  one  of  every 
family.  The  payment  thus  made,  obtained  the  name  of  Ker- 
reck's  pence  or  Kerrvpence. 

The  price  of  these  tokens,  as  already  mentioned,  was  a  pen- 
ny, which  in  the  thirteenth  century  was  a  silver  coin,  weighing 
the  thirteenth  of  an  ounce.  The  present  value  of  the  same  por- 
tion of  silver  is  nominally  equal  to  fourpence,  but  its  actual 
value,  anciently  was  ten  or  fifteen  times  as  much.  The  Bever- 
gate,  therefore,  as  it  was  called,  must  have  produced  a  consider- 
able revenue  to  the  church.  The  lapse  of  time,  by  which  it 
made  this  payment  universal  and  obligatory,  lessened  at  the 
same  time  the  value  of  the  penny,  which  continued  to  be  the  es- 
tablished price  of  this  commodity,  and  the  penny  that  still  con- 
tinues to  be  paid,  amounts  only  to  2000  pounds  a  year,  among 
five  hundred  thousand  persons. 

34 


#♦  266 

At  the  reformation,  the  spiritual  rewards  of  this  pilgrimage 
ceased  to  be  valued  by  the  people  of  Devon  ;  tokens  were  no 
longer  distributed  among  them,  but  the  payment  of  the  annual 
penny  assumed  in  Athelney,  in  time,  the.  form  of  tax  or  a  due 
payable  by  every  one  abiding  in  the  country.  The  lightness  of 
this  tax,  reconciled  the  people  to  the  payment,  and  several  indi- 
rect advantages  arose  from  the  continuaiice  of  the  practice.  The 
chief  of  these  v/as  the  exact  knowledge  it  afforded  of  the  popu- 
lation of  the  countr}'.  It  answered  the  purpose  of  an  annual 
and  exact  enumeration. 

This  payment  continued  near  six  centuries.  For  a  long 
time,  upwards  of  a  century,  all  these  payments  were  made  at 
the  cathedral.  Afterwards  what  was  paid  at  home  became  the 
perquisite  of  the  parish  priest.  Finally,  when  the  pa3-ments 
ceased  at  the  cathedral,  which  happened  in  the  sixteenth  centu- 
ry, a  question  arose,  to  whom  Arthur's  pence  belonged.  This 
question  produced  much  debate,  between  the  parochial  priest- 
hood and  the  convent,  but  was  after  many  synods  and  consis- 
tories, given  to  the  convent.  By  them  it  was  vested  in  the  lord 
in  consideration  of  a  fixed  annuity  of  nve  hundred  pounds,  the 
annual  average  amount  of  this  payment  at  that  time  ;  since 
when  it  has  been  collected  by  the  testates,  and  paid  into  the 
treasury.  The  management  of  it  is  assigned  to  a  particular 
office  and  officer  under  the  pi-etestate  called  the  Kerrypencer. 
This  office  as  already  hinted,  is  now  become,  in  effect,  an  office 
for  numbei-ivig  the  people,  and  all  the  details  belonging  to  this 
enumeration  is  his  province.  The  law  was  abolished  by  the 
present  earl. 

This  contribution  was,  anciently,  a  source  of  immense  in- 
come. This  income  was  always  understood  to  be  sacred  to 
patriotic  and  pious  purposes.  It  being  under  the  controul  of 
the  chapter,  it  was  liable  to  be  diverted  to  the  private  purpo- 
ses of  the  m 'tubers,  but  this  was  always  dceried  an  abuse,  and 
an  upright  spirit,  together  with  the  fear  of  shauie,  sometimes 
secured  the  just  application  of  it.  The  first  object  to  which  it 
was  properly  applied,  was  the  repairing  and  improving  of  the 
temple  itself.  Accordingly  they  were  able  to  execute,  in  the 
course  of  the  thirteenth  cenCury,  the  gigantic  design  originally 
sketched  by  the  Saint  himself,  and  which  renders  the  church  at 


267 

Carthew,  one  of  the  grestest  and  most  magnificent  edifices  in 
Christendom.  The  elaborate  and  minute  sculptures  with  which 
the  walls  are  entirely  covered,  and  the  exquisite  paintings  in 
the  windows,  are  the  product  of  immense  labour,  and  of  cost- 
ly ingenuity,  for  which  however  there  was  no  deficiency  of 
funds,  till  the  era  of  reformation.  Indeed  this  liberal  source 
of  income  enabled  them,  in  the  fifteenth  century  to  rebuild,  in 
their  present  magnificent  style,  all  the  sixteen  churches  of 
Beverly. 

The  scite  of  the  town  of  Beverly,  consisting  of  nine  hundred 
acres,  was  granted  to  his  wife  Ulpha,  for  an  abbey  and  garden, 
by  king  Edwin,  as  early  as  the  year  630.  It  has  continued 
the  property  of  the  convent  ever  since.  As  a  new  demand 
arose  for  houses,  the  brotherhood  erected  them,  together  with 
churches  for  the  accommodation  of  their  tenants  ;  all,  however, 
together  with  the  college,  belonged  to  them  as  parts  of  one 
guild,  or  corporation.  In  the  year  1545,  they  transferred  to 
the  bishop,  all  civil  and  criminal  jurisdiction  within  their  pre- 
cincts, together  with  the  uses.  The  Jurates  therefoi-e  are  ap- 
pointed by  the  bishop,  but  the  testates  and  curates  by  the 
ch  pter. 

The  renown  of  St.  Arthur,  drew  more  permanent  inhabi- 
tants together,  and  the  great  opulence  of  this  community  ena- 
bled them  to  afford  good  accommodation  to  settlers,  and  Car- 
thew was  famous  for  being  the  most  splendid  city  in  England, 
as  early  as  the  thirteenth  century.  Its  college  became  a  cele- 
brated seat  of  learning,  and  the  resort  of  many  students  from 
all  parts.  In  the  age  of  Henry  VII,  it  contained  upwards  of 
twenty  thousand  inhabitants,  2400  houses,  twenty  churches,  or 
more  properly  conventual  cells,  a  college,  the  largest  cathedral 
in  England,  and  many  other  public  buildings.  Since  that  time, 
It  has  greatly  improved  in  the  quality,  though  not  much  in  the 
number  of  inhabitants,  and  its  private  buildings.  The  cheap- 
ness of  subsistence,  arising  from  the  moderate  i-ents  fixed  by 
the  church  upon  the  houses,  and  from  the  exemption  from  di- 
rect taxation,  together  with  tlie  healthiness  and  beauty  of  the 
situation,  and  the  excellent  system  of  instruction  in  the  schools, 
makes  it  the  resort  of  a  great  number  of  persons  of  moderate 
fortunes.     These  visistants  are   subjected  to  no  condition   but 


268 

good  behaviour,  and  an  engagement  to  pay  decent  attendance 
at  church,  to  which  the  musical  performances  are  to  every  one 
a  sufficient  attraction.  Its  rental  is  100,000/.  and  uses  20,000, 
at  60/.  an  house. 

The  city  called  Carthew,  with  its  two  suburbs  of  earls  court, 
and  bishops  court,  entirely  erected  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
is  inhabited  chiefly  by  proprietors  of  the  Bevcren  debt  or 
Ettricks  ;  by  proprietors  in  Orme,  bv  the  knights  who  are  in 
the  habit  of  residing  half  the  }  ear  in  this  city,  and  by  strangers 
from  other  parts  of  England,  chiefly  Devonshire. 

Bishops  court  contains  a  thousand  houses,  about  eight  thou- 
sand people,  the  bishops  palace  and  five  churches.  Its  rental 
and  uses,  60,000/.  Earls  court  has  a  baronial  mansion  or  pa- 
lace, 500  private  dwellings,  4000  people,  and  three  churches, 
each  is  a  separate  community  or  municipal  bodv.  The  rental 
of  earls  court  is  25,000/.  and  the  uses  5000/.* 

The  other  light  abbeys  of  Pamfill}'-,  Norwalt,  Keymaydon, 
Seaton,  Rose,  Tunstall,  Falkland,  Willowley,  and  Orthecstone, 
have  all  of  them  very  ancient  and  considerable  towns  within 
their  precincts.  Their  property  in  all  land  within  these  pre- 
cincts, w^as  originally  absolute,  but,  on  various  occasions,  they 
lessened  their  rights  by  grants  and  concessions  to  their  tenants. 
Each  of  them  however,  has  still  the  property,  upon  an  aver- 
age, of  6400  acres,  and  none  of  them  are  without  some  of  the 
houses  in  their  towns  ;  all  civil  and  criminal  and  fiscal  jurisdic- 
tion in  the  burroughs,  is  either  vested  in  the  burgesses,  or  in  the 
lord.  The  average  of  the  towns  is  1000  houses,  89,000  inhabi- 
tants, 6  churches,  and  a  rental  of  25,000/.  The  covenfield  it- 
self generally  produces  a  rental  of  6400/.  The  whole,  there- 
fore, had  the  original  rights  of  the  convent  been  unimpaired, 
would  have  amounted  to  the  enormous  income  of  more  than 
30,000/. 

All  these  convents  were  founded  between  the  years  644,  and 
800.  Their  dwellings  and  chapels,  with  many  alterations 
and  renovations  continue  to  occupy  their  original  scites.  Their 
landed  property  has  scarcely  experienced  any  change,  except  by 

1  All  Beverley  g'lves  a  rental  of  173,0001.  a  year,  :ai(i  uses  air.oiinting'  to 


269 

their  own  grants,  since  their  foundation.  It  has  been,  in  all 
cases,  larger  than  at  present,  but  few  or  no  accessions  have 
been  made  to  it,  or  exchanges  been  made.  About  one  half  of 
the  landed  property  was  at  one  time,  in  the  hands  of  the  regu- 
lar and  dignified  clergy,  but  the  proportion  is  now  sunk  to 
about  one  sixth,  and  to  a  much  smaller  proportion  of  the  actual 
rental. 

Ulpha,  in  laying  the  foundations  of  her  church,  discovered  a 
cavity,  dug  or  hewn  in  the  rock,  which  contained  a  square  box 
of  silver.  On  the  lid  of  this  box  was  engraven,  in  Roman 
characters,  the  words  Balteus  Arture  Carrille  primate.  With- 
in this  box,  was  found  a  chain  of  silver,  about  four  feet  in  length, 
composed  of  forty-eight  small  plain  links,  with  an  hook  at  one 
end,  to  join  the  ends  when  necessary. 

Beda  relates,  that,  according  to  a  British  chronicle  which 
he  had  seen,  this  belt  or  girdle  was  originally  given,  by  St.  Paul, 
to  a  British  chieftain,  once  of  Artland,  by  the  name  of  Arthur, 
whom  he  met  with  at  Rome,  and  made  a  convert  to  the  chris- 
tian faith.  On  the  day  of  Paul's  execution,  in  the  year  67,  he 
delivered  this  gii-dle  to  his  disciples  as  a  memorial  of  his 
friendship,  and  declared  that  as  long  as  it  was  worn,  it  would 
insure  to  him  the  favour  and  protection  of  Heaven.  Arthur 
returned  in  70  with  this  valuable  legacy  to  his  own  country.  His 
principality  or  domain  of  Artland,  consisted  of  the  territory 
since  called  Athelney  Devan,  which  he  and  his  posterity 
continued  to  govern,  in  subordination  to  the  Roman  empire,  till 
the  coming  of  the  Saxons.  On  the  return  of  the  first  Arthur, 
a  few  converts  were  made  to  his  religion,  and  he  and  his  succes- 
sors who  all  bore  the  same  name,  were  a  kind  of  royal  priests, 
whose  chief  town,  residence,  and  sanctuary  were  fixed  up- 
on this  hill,  and  called  Caer  Arthur,  or  more  brieflv  Car- 
thew.  The  chain  was  faithfully  delivered  from  one  to  another, 
and  preserved  with  religious  venei-ation.  As  Roman  arts  and 
manners  prevailed,  the  town  of  Carthew  or  Arthropolis  en- 
creased  in  size  and  civilization,  and  acquired  municipal  privi- 
leges. The  first  temple  that  was  built  in  the  Roman  manner 
by  the  Britons,  was  erected  on  this  hill,  and  dedicated  to 
Christ,  about  the  beginning  of  the  second  century.  In  a  vault 
of  this  temple,  a  smaller  cavity  Mas  hewn  out,  and  the  chain, 


'270 

enclosed  in  a  silver  box,  was  deposited  within  it  under  the  spe- 
cial guardianship  of  the  reigning  prince  and  his  successors. 
From  age  to  age,  the  veneration  for  this  relick  encreased.  It 
was  invested  with  many  miraculous  virtues,  and,  among  other 
uses  assigned  to  it,  was  that  of  conferring  the  kingly  dignity  on 
the  princes  of  the  country,  by  investing  them,  in  this  temple 
at  the  time  of  their  accession,  with  this  girdle,  a  ceremony 
which  still  continued  to  be  used  in  the  inauguration  or  installing 
of  the  bishops  of  Carthew,  who  are  deemed  the  ecclesiastical 
successors  of  these  princes. 

Constantius  Chlorus  who  afterwards  became  emperor  of  the 
West,  married  in  25^1,  Helena,  the  daughter  of  Arthur  the 
tenth  prince  of  Artland.  Constantine  the  Great,  was  born  in 
the  following  year,  at  Carthew.  Arthur  suffered  much  from  the 
tyranny  of  Carausius.  His  estates  were  forfeited,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  take  refuge  with  his  son-in-law  in  Gaul.  By  the  de- 
struction of  Carausius,  however,  b}-  Constantius,  in  296,  Arthur 
the  Eleventh,  son  of  the  former  Arthur,  who  died  in  exile,  was 
raised  to  a  greater  pitch  of  prosperity,  than  any  of  his  prede- 
cessors. He  was  the  brother  of  Helena,  who,  though  repu- 
diated by  her  husband,  was  still  invested  with  great  dignity  and 
afPiuence,  this  divorce  being  merely  dictated  by  political  mo- 
tives, and  having  taken  place  with  her  own  consent.  When  Con- 
stantine became  emperor,  his  uncle  was  made  governor  of 
Maxima,  Cesaruncis,  and  vicar  of  Britain,  an  office  he  en- 
joyed till  his  death,  in  325.  He  was  succeeded  in  it  by  his  son 
Arthur  the  twelfth.  The  reigns  of  these  two  princes,  occupi- 
ed a  period  of  fifty-eight  years,  during  which  this  province  of 
the  empire  enjoyed  the  blessings  of  good  government  with  an 
absolute  exemption  from  foreign  and  intestine  war.  Carthew 
was  the  vicarial  residence,  and  acquired,  from  the  favour  of 
the  governors,  considerable  splendour  and  population.  The 
death  of  the  twelfth  Arthur  in  354,  put  a  period  to  this  glory. 
He  left  an  infant  grand-son,  under  the  guardianship  of  his  mo- 
ther Helena,  and  the  familv  thenceforth,  were  confined  to  their 
ancient  patrimony  of  Artland,  and  experienced  much  variety 
of  foi-tune  according  to  the  temper  and  views  of  the  emperors 
and  their  deputies. 


271 

The  Roman  authority  In  Britain  was  dissolved  about  the 
year  400.  Thenceforth  the  petty  princes  of  the  country,  Vvho 
were  generally  descended  from  the  chieftains,  whom  the  Ro- 
mans found  in  possession  of  it,  became  each  of  them  absolute 
and  independent.  Their  mutual  relations  were  founded  on 
sympathy  of  language,  religion  and  manners,  and  on  volunta- 
ry facts  and  treaties.  Of  these  families  the  most  illustrious, 
and  the  most  pure,  and  entire  in  its  pedigree,  was  that  of 
Carthew  ;  but  its  representatives  were  for  several  successive 
generations,  more  remarkable  for  their  devout  and  pacific  ha- 
bits, than  for  enterprize  or  ambition.  They  therefore  did  not 
take  the  lead  at  any  time  in  the  affairs  of  Britain.  About  half 
a  century  elapsed  between  the  departure  of  the  Romans,  and 
the  first  alliance  between  the  Britons  and  Saxons. 

For  many  years  the  contests  between  the  Saxons  and  Britons 
were  confined  to  the  Southern  districts.  It  was  not  till  the 
year  550,  a  century  after  their  establishment  in  Kent,  that  the 
Saxons  obtained  a  firm  footing  in  the  North.  Alia  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  death  of  the  twenty-fifth  Arthur,  who  left  only 
an  infant  son,  and  a  daughter  of  mature  age  behind  him,  over- 
run this  principality,  reduced  Carthew  after  a  long  siege,  and 
involved  the  whole  nation  in  desti'uction.  The  capture  and 
destruction  of  Carthew,  is  said  to  have  taken  place  in  553. 
Consequently  a  period  of  486  years  elapsed  between  the  acces- 
sion of  the  first  Arthur,  the  convent  of  St.  Paul,  in  70,  and  the 
death  of  the  last  prince  of  this  line  and  name,  in  553.  The 
sister  of  the  infant  prince,  is  said  to  have  given  up  the  fortress 
to  the  Saxon  leader  on  promise  of  personal  security  to  herself 
and  brother,  but  this  promise  was  violated.  The  young  prince, 
together  with  all  the  garrison  and  inhabitants  were  slaughtered, 
and  the  sister  was  compelled  by  menaces  of  tortures  and  death 
to  abjure  her  religion  and  consent  to  a  marriage  with  Alia. 

From  this  compulsory  alliance,  sprung  the  Saxon  princes  of 
Dura  and  Northumberland;  and  the  claims  which  are  maintain- 
ed by  the  present  earls  palatine  of  a  regular  descent  from  the 
British  princes  of  this  country.  Beda  professes  to  have  drawn 
up  this  part  of  his  prolix  annals  of  Carthev.-,  from  certain 
chronicles  compiled  by  monks  of  the  convent,  which  the  Eleventh 
Arthm-  founded  here  in  295.    I'hese  moir.iscripts  v/ere  preserv- 


272 

ed  by  Tergan,  a  member  of  this  brotherhood,  who,  on  the  in- 
vasion of  Alia,  escaped  to  the  continent,  and  finally  obtained 
refuge  in  Rome.  He  deposited  his  manuscripts,  augmented  by 
some  additions  of  his  own,  in  a  library  in  that  city,  where  they 
were  found  about  the  year  720,  and  sent  to  Beda  by  the  pope, 
in  order  to  assist  him  in  writing  his  ecclesiastical  history.  Be- 
da's  work,  however  copious,  he  represents  as  merely  an  abridge- 
ment of  the  still  more  copious  materials  supplied  him  from 
Rome.  They  are  no  longer  extant,  and  probably  perished 
in  the  burning  of  the  convent,  after  the  siege  by  Henry  the 
First. 

The  church  at  Carthew  acquired  fame  and  veneration,  by 
being  the  repository  of  St.  Paul's  belt,  and  by  being  the  first 
Christian  temple  erected  in  Britain.  The  materials  were  taken 
from  a  quarry  in  the  hill  itself,  and  were  not  exposed  to  ruin 
from  any  thing  but  human  force,  or  the  corrosion  of  the  ele- 
ments. Constantine  and  Hellena  his  mother  honoured  this 
place  of  their  nativity  with  particular  regard.  In  the  progress 
of  time,  the  belt  acquired  the  reputation  of  possessing  many 
miraculous  virtues,  and  the  reverence  paid  to  the  First  Arthur 
soon  degenerated  into  formal  worship.  He  was  clothed  with 
the  honours  of  a  Sa'nt,  and  became  the  tutelary  divinity  of 
Artland,  as  early  as  the  year  350. 

It  was  not  till  the  time  of  Beda,  that  the  ancient  history  of 
Beverley  became  known  to  the  convent.  Thev  were  then  in- 
formed by  Tergan's  chronicles  of  the  history  and  merits  of  the 
girdle,  and  that  the  body  of  St.  Arthur  was  deposited  in  the 
same  cavity,  though  at  a  greater  depth,  which  contained  the 
silver  box.  Ul{)ha,  when  she  first  discovered  this  box  and  its 
enclosure,  was  informed,  by  the  jnemhers  of  a  convent  in  Bri- 
taigne,  that  this  was  a  christian  rclick,  and  the  object,  for 
causes  unknown  to  them,  of  the  worship  of  the  christian 
people,  who  preceded  the  Saxons  in  the  possession  of  the  coun- 
try. She  therefore  replaced  it,  and  ordered  that  no  one  should 
disturb  it.  Ninety  years  afterwards,  it  was  again  disinterred, 
as  well  as  the  Iiocly  below  it.  The  reigning  pope  acknowledged 
the  divinity  of  Arthur  and  the  sanctity  of  his  girdle.  ^  The 
girdle  was  exhibited,  on  solemn  days,  to  a  multitude  of  wor- 
shippers, and  an  altar  was  built  over  the  grave  of  Saint  Arthur, 


\vho  was  regarded  as  the  peculiar  patron  of  the  church,  city,  and 
country  around  his  monument.  The  eminence  on  which  Ul- 
pha  had  built  her  convent,  had  previously  acquired  the  name  of 
iJlverstone,  but  the  church  was  denominated,  the  Beltmin- 
ster  or  Belrainster,  the  town  Belterly  or  Beverly,  and  the  coun- 
ty Beltern  or  Berven.  The  two  sister  Saints  Ulpha  and  Er- 
menilda  were  deemed  second  to  him,  though  equal  to  each 
other,  and  occupied  the  second  rank  in  his  temple.  When 
the  merits  of  Saint  Arthur  Carril  began  to  acquire  distinction, 
those  of  the  ancient  Arthur  became  almost  obsolete.  The 
chapter  of  Canterbury  solemnly  testified  that  the  likeness  of 
their  martyred  pastor  appeared  to  them,  and  said,  remove  my 
body  to  Belminster,  for  there  my  spirit  delighteth  to  dwell ; 
bury  it  in  the  grave  of  St.  Arthur,  for  he  and  I  are  the  same. 
From  this  mysterious  declaration,  they  inferred  that  the  soul  of 
the  ancient  Arthur,  had  actually  and  literally  animated  the  body 
of  the  bishop,  and  this  inference  was  fully  recognized  and  sanc- 
tioned by  the  bull  of  the  Roman  pontiff.  Hence  both  person- 
ages were  identified  by  the  imagination  of  their  worshippers  : 
the  same  altar  and  shrine  served  for  both,  and  the  honours 
paid  to  the  second,  were  merely  the  continuance  or  revival  of 
those  due  to  the  first  Arthur. 

From  Beda's  description  of  the  temple  erected  by  the  Ar- 
thurs it  appears  to  have  been  an  edifice  of  great  solidity  and 
magnitude.  The  terms  he  uses  are  such  as  could  only  be  bor- 
rowed from. an  earlier  writer,  and  from  one  conversant  with  the 
ideas  of  Roman  architects.  The  finest  building  *.vas  begun 
5ibout  the  year  100.  Two  hundred  and  twenty  years  afterwards 
a  new  one  was  constructed  by  the  eleventh  Arthur,  aided  by 
the  council  and  munificence  of  the  Great  Constantine.  The 
second  temple  is  described  as  consisting  of  an  oblong  square, 
sixty-four  feet  wide  within  the  interior  colonades,  and  three 
hundred  and  sixty-four  feet  in  the  whole  length.  Within  were 
two  rows  of  columns,  which  by  the  description  given  of  the 
capitals  appear  to  have  been  of  the  Corinthian  order.  They 
were  entire  pieces  from  the  quarry,  and  were  forty-eight  feet 
high.  Above  the  entablature  were  walls,  with  oblong  windows, 
a  timber  roof  flat  within,  and  angular  and  covered  with  lead 
without.       The  east  end  was    semicirculai-,    and   was    raised 

3.^ 


274 

several  steps  above  the  common  floor.  Here  was  the  grand  al-^ 
tar  which  was  raised  upon  the  grave  of  Arthur.  There  is  ex- 
tant a  ground  plan  of  the  Saxon  church  as  it  existed  in  the 
twelfth  century,  and  as  Beda  relates  that  Ulpha  found  the 
walls  and  pillars  of  the  ancient  church  standing,  and  had  only 
to  supply  it  with  doors,  windows,  and  roof,  to  make  it  fit  for 
divine  service,^,  and  that  the  body  of  the  structure  was  entire  in 
his  days,  it  is  likely  that  this  plan  is  descriptive  of  the  edifice  as 
erected  under  Constantine  :  but  from  this  it  would  appear  to 
be  a  correct  copy  of  the  Roman  Basilica. 

When  the  present  church  was  erected,  the  architect  took 
care  to  make  the  breadth  and  length  of  the  afterwalk  coincide 
with  those  of  the  ancient  temple.  The  tomb  of  Arthur  remains, 
and  the  grand  altar  is  placed  on  the  same  spot  on  which  it  was 
probably  erected  more  than  seventeen  centuries  ago.  The  co- 
lumns were  sawn  into  pieces,  and  inclosed  in  the  present  walls 
and  piers.  The  same  use  was  made  of  the  ancient  walls.  Eve- 
ry part  of  the  pristine  building  was  considered  as  sacred,  and  as 
necessary  to  be  retained  and  employed  in  the  body  of  the  new. 
The  old  colonades  consisted  of  thirty-eight  pillars  in  each.  The 
same  number,  though  very  different  in  size  and  fashion,  is  ex- 
hibited in  the  new. 

The  memory  of  the  Artland  princes  is  thus  preserved  in 
the  writings  of  Beda.  He  likewise  relates  that  twenty-five 
graves,  similar  in  form  to  that  in  which  the  silver  coffer  and 
chain  were  discovered,  and  placed  near  each  other  in  a  row, 
were  found  by  the  queen  Ulpha  at  the  same  time,  but  no  re- 
gard was  paid  to  them.  On  the  contrary,  the  bones  were  cast 
out,  and  the  cavities  preserved  for  burying  places  to  the  abbots 
who  succeeded  her.  It  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  in  the 
year  1134,  when  the  new  church  was  constructed,  these  graves 
were  completely  filled  with  twenty-five  successive  abbots. 

These  graves  were  excavations  made  in  the  rocky  pave- 
ment, three  feet  wide  and  seven  feet  long  at  the  top,  and  six- 
teen feet  deep.  The  body  was  laid  at  the  bottom  in  the  bare 
stone,  and  covered  with  a  flat  stone  made  accurately  to  fit  the 
opening,  and  supported  by  a  ledge  round  it.  There  were  three 
such  lids,  one  above  an  other, ,  having  between  every  two  an 
interval  of  seven  or  eight  feet,  the  upper  one  being  even  with 


275 

the  floor  of  the  church.  There  were  inscriptions  on  the  lower 
and  upper  stones,  which  were  efFaced  by  the  Saxon  sculptors, 
and  replaced  by  inscriptions  adapted  to  the  new  tenants  of  their 
tombs. 

According  to  the  plans  of  the  second  Arthur,  an  under 
craft  was  to  be  hewn  out  beneath  the  whole  of  the  new  build- 
ing, and  this  was  to  be  reserv^ed  for  a  sepulchre  or  mausoleum. 
The  under  bye-walks  were  to  be  appropriated  partly  as  sepulchres 
of  the  ancient  abbots,  a  separate  apartment  being  dedicated  to 
each,  and  partly  to  the  Carthew  princes.  The  bones  of  the  lat- 
ter were  irrecoverably  lost ;  so  that  cenotaphs  only  could  be 
erected  to  their  honour.  The  earls  palatine  being  considered 
as  the  successors  of  the  Carthew  princes,  were  naturally  thought 
of  as  the  proper  tenants  of  these  unoccupied  tombs,  and  accor- 
dingly all  the  earls  from  Edgar  Atheling  to  the  last  have  been 
buried  here. 

The  undercraft  of  Bellminster  is  therefore  a  sepulchre  or 
mausoleum  for  the  tvv^enty-six  princes  of  Carthew  ;  for  thirty- 
one  Northumbrian  kings  from  Ulla  to  Andrid,  who  reigned 
successively  from  547,  to  810,  a  period  of  263  years  ;  for  eight 
of  the  Saxon  kings  of  England,  Ethelbald  II,  who  died  in 
860,  Ethelbert  II,  in  866,  Ethelred  I,  in  872,  and  Alfred  the 
Great,  in  GOl,  brothers,  grandsons  of  Egbert.  Athelstain, 
grand-son  of  Alfred  who  died  in  940,  and  Edmund  I,  his  bro- 
ther, in  947,  Edgar  son  of  Edmund,  in  975,  and  Edward  the  mar- 
tyr, in  982,  of  the  Norman  Kings,  Henry  II,  in  1189,  and  Hen- 
ry V,  in  1422,  were  buried  here,  and  thirty-three  earls  of  Be- 
vern,  twenty-five  abbots,  thirty  bishops,  and  twenty-seven  pri- 
ors were  also  interred  in  these  vaults.  These  Mausolea  there- 
fore are  occupied  with  the  tombs  or  graves,  or  monuments,  of 
an  hundred  and  eighty-five  persons. 

The  Northumbrian  king  Edwin,  removed  the  bodies  of 
his  predecessors  hither,  and  he  and  his  successors  were  buried 
here.  Their  bones  have  been  unmolested,  and  lie  together  in 
a  subterranean  chapel,  which  was  built  for  them  in  the  twelfth 
century,  pursuant  to  the  plan  of  the  fourth  founder,  and  to 
which  they  were  transferred  with  solemn  rites.  It  branches 
out  northward  from  the  afterwalk,  and  is  called  Kirk  Edwin. 
This  appellation  includes  the  three  apartments,  one  above  ano- 


276 

ther  of  this  offcell  or  offkirk,  or  outcell  or  outkirk  as  build- 
ings of  this  kind  are  called  in  Athelney.  Accurately  speaking, 
the  term  ofFcell  denotes  a  small  chapel  projecting  from  the 
side  or  lateral  wall  of  a  larger  one  ;  outcell  signifies  a  chapel 
adjacent  to  another  larger  than  itself,  and  connected  with  it  by 
a  covered  way,  cloister  or  gallery.  Offkirk  is  a  chapel  belong- 
ing to  a  larger  one,  and  near  adjacent  to  it,  but  not  adjoining 
it  b\'  a  continued  wall.  Outkirk,  is  a  church  belonging  to 
and  dependant  on  another,  but  not  built  beside  or  very  near 
it.  The  sixteen  churches  of  Beverly  are  outkirks  of  St.  Ul- 
pha's  or  Belminster.  So  is  at  least  one  church  in  each  of  the 
eight  burroughs.  Of  the  eighty  churches  in  Ormsey,  eleven 
are  outkirks  of  the  cathedral.  They  weie  originally  built, 
and  are  still  maintained  from  its  funds,  and  administered  by 
curates  and  officers  of  its  appointment.  The  whole  number 
of  these  outkirks  of  St.  Ulpha's  is  thirty-seven. 

I'he  history  of  Athelney,  from  the  extinction  of  the  Nor- 
thumbrian kingdom  in  547,  to  the  Norman  tonquest  in  1060, 
a  period  of  513  years,  may  be  deemed  wholly  ecclesiastical. 
A  charter  of  king  Egbert,  still  extant,  bestows  the  whole  pro- 
vince, in  absolute  property  and  sovereignty,  on  the  abbey  of 
St.  ITlpha,  and  in  this  form  it  continued  to  be  governed  till  the 
eleventh  century.  The  annals  of  the  convent  relate  that  such 
was  the  powerful  protection  of  its  heavenly  guardians  that  the 
Danes,  during  this  period,  never  violated  its  tranquility.  It 
appears,  however,  by  the  same  chronicles  that  the  abbots  were 
in  general,  men  of  wisdom  and  enterprize,  and  not  only  con- 
ducted well  the  internal  government,  but  successfully  resisted 
and  repelled  all  efforts  of  foreign  invaders.  Athelney  came  to 
be  considered  as  an  holv  and  inviolable  land,  and  the  people 
of  the  less  secured  provinces  took  refuge  within  its  confines. 
It  was  probably  the  most  flourishing  part  of  Britain  during  both 
the  British  and  Saxon  periods. 

The  terror  of  religion  shielded  this  province  from  the  vio- 
lence of  the  Norman  conquerors.  On  the  submission  of  the 
abbot  Kenulf,  the  brother  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  all  his 
rights  were  recognized  and  confij'med  by  William.  At  the 
death  of  this  abbot,  Ansehn,  an  Italian  monk  was  elected 
in  1069,  but  with   his  and  the   pope's  consent,    the    patrimo- 


277 

ny  of  St.  Ulpha  was  confined  to  the  lordship  of  Carthew, 
and  the  rest  of  the  province  was  bestowed  as  a  feudatory  king- 
dom upon  Edgar  Athehng,  who  bears  the  title  of  First  Earl 
of  Athelney.  He  continued  to  govern  as  such,  till  1175,  a 
period  of  57  years,  a  longer  period  than  the  reign  of  any  of 
his  successors,  except  the  one  now  living,  who  is  the  heir  of 
Edgar,  by  regular  lineal  descent. 

Since  the  time  of  Edgar,  it  has  been  the  custom  of  this  fa- 
mily to  name  their  male  children  successively,  Edgar,  Arthur, 
Herbert,  Edmond,  Walter,  Eustace  ;  and  the  females,  Adela, 
Edwina,  Eumenilda,  Pamphela,  Hellene.  These,  accordingly, 
are  the  only  ones  to  be  in  the  list  of  the  sovereigns  of  Athelney. 
They  are  entitled,  by  the  charter  of  William  the  Conquei-or,  to 
th^  name  of  king  and  queen,  and  in  certain  judicial  proceed- 
ings this  title  is  still  given  them.  They,  however,  by  no  means 
affect  it,  and  rather  choose  the  title  of  earls  palatine,  by  which 
they  are  familiarly  known. 

The  most  extraordinary  character  which  this  family  has 
produced,  was  the  countess  Pamphela.  She  was  the  only 
child  of  Herbert  Carril,  earl  palatine,  and  Mary,  youngest 
daughter  of  Henry  the  Fourth.  She  was  born  in  1402,  and  was 
married  at  sixteen.  She  had  three  sons  and  a  daughter.  At 
twenty  years  old  her  husband  and  father  died,  and  left  her  sole 
mistress  of  the  earldoms  of  Athelney  and  Kent,  and  guardians 
of  her  children.  Her  eldest  son,  the  heir  of  his  father  as  earl 
of  Kent,  was  the  famous  King  maker  who  was  slain  at  the  battle 
of  Barnet  in  1471.  Pamphela  lived  to  the  great  age  of  ninety- 
seven  in  the  possession  of  a  vigorous  constitution,  and  all  her 
faculties  unimpaired.  Her  second  son  was  slain  with  his  elder 
brother,  at  Barnet.  Her  third  son  was  archbishop  of  York. 
The  reign  of  Pamphela  continued  from  1422,  being  the  1st  of 
Henry  VI,  to  1499,  the  15th  of  Henry  VII.  She  displayed 
extraordinary  prudence  in  escaping  from  all  the  tempests  and 
convulsions  of  the  times,  and  preserving  her  little  territory  un- 
touched by  war  or  commotion  for  a  period  of  77  years.  Though 
so  nearly  related  to  the  crown,  and  though  her  sons  were  in- 
volved in  the  quarrels  of  the  two  roses,  her  caution  and  dex- 
terity insured  her  safety  under  every  revolution.  She  was  the 
most  celebrated  beauty  of  the  age,  but  being  endowed  with 


278 

masculine  ambition,  and  a  passion  for  government,  she  deter- 
mined never  to  marry  again,  and  her  resolution  and  constancy  in 
rejecting  the  numerous  matrimonial  offers  that  were  made  her, 
were  subjected  to  the  most  severe  trials.  She  was  learned  and 
accomplished  beyond  all  the  women  of  her  age,  and  many  of 
her  compositions,  in  prose  and  verse,  in  Latin  and  English, 
are  still  extant.  Except  a  journey  which  she  made  through 
France,  and  to  the  chief  towns  of  Italy  in  1430,  she  never  pass- 
ed the  limits  of  Athelney,  after  the  death  of  her  father.  She 
was  exceedingly  devout,  and  her  enthusiasm  even  carried  her 
into  the  persuasion  that  her  body  was  a  second  incarnation  of 
St.  Pamphela,  and  exempted  from  disease  and  death  till  she 
herself  should  desire  her  own  dissolution.  This  belief  was 
adopted  by  her  at  the  age  of  twenty- one,  and  her  subsequent  ex- 
perience bore  a  surprising  conformity  to  this  precaution. 

She  had  many  singular  opinions  on  religious  topics.  She 
maintained  the  absolute  equality  of  the  two  sexes,  and  the  right 
of  woman  to  perform  the  sacerdotal  functions.  These  opi- 
nions, however,  she  never  so  far  reduced  to  practice  as  to  ex- 
pose herself  to  molestation  and  scandal.  At  the  death  of  her 
uncle  Herbert  Carril,  bishop  of  Carthew,  in  1429,  she  conceiv- 
ed the  design  of  investing  herself  with  the  pontifical  dignity, 
and  uniting  in  her  own  person,  not  only  the  temporal  and 
spiritual  privileges  which  were  formerly  conjoined  in  the  Sax- 
on abbots,  but  all  the  sacerdotal  power  vested  in  the  bishops  of 
Carthew  by  the  papal  Bull.  To  obtain  the  papal  sanction  to 
this  scheme,  was  a  chief  object  of  her  journey  to  Rome  in  the 
following  year,  and  she  pursued  it  further  and  more  pertinaci- 
ously than  was  consistent  with  her  known  prudence.  Finding 
it  however,  too  violent  an  attack  upon  the  prejudice  of  the 
age,  she  was  obliged  reluctantly  to  give  it  up,  and  procured 
the  appointment  to  that  office  of  her  tutor  Alfonzo. 

Alfonzo  was  of  unknown  parentage.  He  was  found  a  child 
of  six  years  old,  without  guardian  or  companion,  sitting  on  the 
steps  of  the  church  of  the  holy  sepulchre  at  Jerusalem,  by  the 
countess's  father,  while  on  a  pilgrimage  to  that  city,  about  the 
year  1375.  Being  struck  with  the  noble  countenance  of  the 
child,  who  applied  to  him  for  alms,  the  earl  took  him  under 
his  protection,  and  returned  with  him  to  Europe.     He  was  left 


279 

at  a  college  in  Florence,  where  he  was  carefully  instructed  in 
all  the  literature  of  the  times,  and  became  a  very  eminent  scho- 
lar. In  1411,  he  came  to  England  by  thV  directions  of  his  pa- 
tron, and  undertook  the  education  of  his  daughter.  He  had 
previously  entered  into  holy  orders,  and  when  Pamphela  grew 
up,  she  made  him  her  chaplain,  confessor  and  counsellor.  He 
was  like  his  mistress,  of  a  warm,  enthusiastic  temper,  and  was 
the  author  of  most  of  her  peculiar  habits  and  opinions.  He  felt 
or  feigned  an  unbounded  reverence  for  her  character  and  sta- 
tion, and  first  suggested  to  her  mind  the  notion  of  her  kindred 
to  St.  Pamphela.  He  behaved  to  her,  finally,  more  as  a  wor- 
shipper than  an  equal.  He  refused  to  accept  of  any  office  or 
preferment  which  led  him  away  from  attendance  on  her  per- 
son, but  persuaded  her  at  the  same  time,  that  she  was  above 
the  necessity  or  duty  of  treating  him  as  a  spiritual  father  or  con- 
fessor. Finding  it  impracticable  to  place  the  mitre  on  her  own 
head,  she  procured  it  to  be  placed  on  that  of  her  preceptor,  who 
yielded  with  great  reluctance  to  her  command,  and  administered 
the  office,  when  he  had  gained  it  under  her  constant  and  entire 
and  absolute  controul.  Such  was  the  strange  fascination  of 
these  persons,  that  the  bishop,  in  his  life  of  Pamphela,  acknow- 
ledges, though  somewhat  obscurely,  that  there  was  a  con- 
nection between  them,  first  proposed  by  her,  and  concurred 
with  by  him  through  mere  deference  to  a  will  which  could  not 
err.  This  circumstance  he  says  did  not  abate  the  veneration 
which  he  entertained  for  her,  and  his  submission  to  her  political 
or  spiritual  orders.  This  intercourse,  he  says,  by  a  special 
indulgence  of  St.  Pamphela,  vocally  imparted  to  them  at  her 
shrine,  was  unattended  with  offspring.  If  we  except  this 
strange  infatuation  of  the  bishop  in  relation  to  his  mistress, 
there  is  reason  to  describe  him  as  a  wise  and  upright  prelate,  who 
governed  his  see  with  great  prudence  and  integrity.  He  go- 
verned this  church  from  1431  to  1463,  or  thirty -two  years. 

St.  Pamphela  was  a  maiden  of  obscure  birth,  being  no  better 
than  a  shepherd's  daughter,  and  lived  in  the  time  of  Alfred,  in 
the  village  to  which  that  prince  retired  on  one  occasion  from  the 
pursuit  of  the  Danish  conquerors.  She  had  passed  a  devout 
life  from  her  infancy,  and  the  neighbourhood  regarded  her  as 
one  whose  prayers  would  intercede  more  powerfully  for  them 


280 

in  the  courts  of  heaven,  than  those  of  any  other  dead  or  living 
patroness.  She  is  said  to  have  recognized  Alfred  at  his  first 
appearance  in  the  \';yage,  notwithstanding  his  disguise,  and 
her  previous  unacquaintance  with  his  person.  She  likewise 
bid  him  be  of  good  cheer,  and  assured  him  that  he  should 
finally  subdue  the  barbarous  invaders,  and  enjoy  a  long  and 
prosperous  reign.  She  died  and  was  buried  in  a  grove,  with 
an  humble  stone  over  her.  This  rustic  tomb  was  frequented 
by  the  villagers,  and  the  spirit  of  the  maid  was  invoked  in 
hymns  and  prayers,  and  her  kind  regard  for  her  natal  spot  was 
testified  by  many  miraculous  favours  bestowed  upon  her  wor- 
shippers. Alfred  in  his  prosperity,  ordered  a  church  to  be  built 
over  her  grave,  and  endowed  it  with  the  fields  around  it,  as 
an  income  to  a  priest,  who  should  be  appointed  by  the  abbot  of 
St.  Ulpha,  and  who  shall  pray  daily  for  his  soul.  After  the 
death  of  Alfred,  the  church  of  St.  Pamphela  gained  but  little 
notice.  The  rental  of  the  ground  given  by  Alfred,  afforded  a 
very  slender  stipend  to  the  chantiy  priest,  and  though  the 
church  was  occasionally  repaired  by  the  personal  labour  of  the 
villagers,  it  Mas  after  the  lapse  of  five  hundred  years,  in  a  very 
sorry  and  decayed  condition.  St.  Pamphela,  however,  was 
not  entirely  neglected  or  despised  by  the  country  at  large.  Her 
name  found  a  place  in  the  Carthew  Calendar,  and  her  chapel 
was  generally  found,  in  a  corner  of  the  greater  churches ;  but 
her  altar  was  seldom  honoured  with  religious  rites. 

Mary,  the  mother  of  the  countess,  had  suffered  several  mis- 
carriages, before  the  birth  of  this  daughter.  These  she  had  in- 
vain  endeavoured  to  avert  by  prayers  and  pilgrimages  to  seve- 
ral popular  shrines.  While  pregnant  Avith  this  daughter,  she 
chanced  to  be  overtaken  by  a  storm,  while  travelling  from 
London  to  Beverly,  and  took  refuge  in  a  cottage  hard  by  the 
church  of  Pamphela.  Her  personal  feelings  began  to  threaten 
her  with  a  new  disaster,  when  an  old  woman  present  exhorted 
her  to  seek  the  aid  of  St.  Pamphela,  who,  according  to  her  re- 
port was  never  prayed  to  in  vain.  The  advice  was  followed, 
and  while  praying  at  the  shrine  of  Pamphela,  the  countess  felt 
her  healthful  feelings  return,  and  a  grateful  assurance  that  on 
this  occasion,  all  would  be  well.  Three  months  after  she  was 
safely  delivered  of  a  daughter,  whom  she  called  by  the  .name 


281 

of  her  divine  benefactress.  In  the  same  year  she  died,  but 
left  a  writing  behind  apprizing  her  daughter  of  the  debt  she 
owed  to  this  Saint,  and  enjoining  her  to  pay  it  by  honour  and 
worship.  This  letter  described  the  circumstances  of  her  ap- 
plication to  the  humble  shrine  of  St.  Pamphela,  and  related 
that  die  answer  to  her  application  was  audibly  made  in  these 
terms :  "  Mary,  thy  prayer  is  heard.  A  daughter  thou  shalt 
have.  Wise  shall  she  be,  and  long  her  life,  for  I  myself  shall 
be  thy  daughter."  It  was  on  the  latter  and  mysterious  part  of 
this  promise,  that  the  countess  built  her  flattering  belief  of  a 
near  alliance  between  her  and  the  sainted  Pamphela,  and  which 
her  counsellor  endeavoured  to  fortify  by  metaphysical  argu- 
ments in  support  of  such  a  transfusion  or  transmigration  of 
souls. 

The  countess,  from  the  period  of  childhood,  fostered  a  pre- 
ference for  a  single  and  devotional,  though  not  a  cloistered 
life.  Her  father's  will  was  opposite  to  hers  and  compelled  her 
not  only  to  marry,  but  in  consequence  of  that  marriage,  to  for- 
sake her  native  country,  and  reside  in  London  and  Kent.  The 
premature  death  of  her  husband  w^s  happily  followed  very  soon 
by  that  of  her  father,  who,  if  he  had  survived  many  months, 
would  have  compelled  her  to  a  second  marriage  with  the  son 
of  a  German  prince,  and  thus  condemned  her  for  the  rest  of 
her  life,  to  an  abode  among  strangers  in  a  foreign  land,  and 
have  bereaved  her  of  all  the  privileges  and  enjoyments  which 
she  held  most  dear.  The  earl  her  father  was  of  a  gloomy, 
austere  and  impious  character,  and  regarded  his  daughter  as 
the  mere  slave  of  his  humours,  and  tool  of  his  ambition.  His 
design  was  that  she  should  leave  England  forever,  and  leav^ 
her  children  in  his  guardianship,  and  after  his  death,  in  that 
of  his  brother  the  bishop  of  Carthew.  This  melancholy  des- 
tiny was  averted  by  his  sudden  death. 

She  returned  and  took  quiet  possession  of  her  patrimony. 
Her  uncle,  the  bishop,  was  somewhat  of  her  father's  character, 
and  endeavoured  to  persuade  or  intimidate  her  into  a  fulfil- 
ment of  her  father's  intentions,  both  with  regard  to  herself  and 
her  children,  but  being  now  legally  independant,  she  was  of  too 
lofty  a  spirit  to  brook  the  controul  of  any  one.  She  incurred 
considerable  inconvenience  and   inqviietude    from   her  uncle's 

36 


282 

character,  but  she  still  got  the  better  of  him  in  every  contest 
in  which  they  were  engaged.  Finallv,  she  was  relieved  from 
this  source  of  trouble,  by  the  prelate's  resignation  of  this  see, 
and  translation  to  York,  to  which  he  was  induced  to  consent 
on  finding  all  his  efforts  to  reign  in  Athelney  unsuccessful. 
There  was  much  contention  between  them  about  his  succes- 
sor. She  was  anxious  to  promote  her  tutor  Alfonzo,  to"  this 
high  station,  but  her  uncle  would  only  consent  to  give  up  his 
place  to  a  creature  of  his  own,  Martin  Exetor,  already  prior 
of  St.  Ulphas.  As  Martin  was  old  and  infirm,  and  had  no 
pretensions  to  authority  from  his  birth,  she  finally  agreed  to 
his  election. 

On  her  first  accession  to  her  heritance,  she  indulged  her- 
self in  schemes  for  honouring  her  peculiar  patroness,  but  she 
was  thwarted  in  these  by  the  two  bishops.  She  naturally  con- 
ceived the  resolution  of  building  a  church  and  convent  on  the 
spot  consecrated  by  the  grave  of  St.  Pamphela,  but  the  ground 
belonged  to  the  bishopric,  and  no  religious  foundation  could 
be  formed  without  his  concurrence  and  sanction.  This  sanc- 
tion not  only  the  uncle  denied,  but  his  successor,  by  his  insti- 
gation, though  under  plausible  pretexts,  continued  to  refuse  it. 
She  was,  therefore,  obliged  to  delay  the  execution  of  her  plans, 
till  the  death  of  Martin  should  remove  the  present  obstacles. 
The  pontifical  authority  was, even  exerted  to  present  the  small- 
est indulgence  of  her  wishes  on  this  head. .  She  was  suffered 
neither  to  enrich  nor  adorn  the  tomb  itself,  nor  to  translate  the 
hallowed  bones  to  a  new  depository,  nor  to  introduce  into  the 
chapel  of  her  own  palace,  any  new  rites  or  other  objects  of  wor- 
ship. The  opposition  of  her  uncle  was  more  blunt,  positive 
imd  rude,  but  Martin,  v/ithout  being  more  compliant,  was  more 
civil,  and  covered  his  refusals  under  a  veil  of  arguments  and 
scruples.  Alfonzo  endeavoured  to  console  her  under  these 
vexations,  bv  persuading  her  that  as  the  soul  of  St.  Pamphela 
was  actually  enshrined  in  her  own  person,  and  it  was  the  spirit 
of  the  Saint  alone  which  was  the  proper  object  of  worship,  all 
devotional  rites  addressed  to  this  Saint  as  to  a  being  different 
from  herself,  would  be  absurd.  These  arguments  had  certain- 
ly some  influence,  but  their  tendency  was  to  deprive  her  of 
the  pleasure  of  devout  exercises  ;  the  .consciousness  of  enjoy- 


283 

ing  the  favour  and  protection  of  an  immortal,  celestial  and 
powerful  friend,  and  the  sweet  emotions  of  gratitude  and  men- 
tal intercourse  with  an  inhabitant  of  Heaven.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  distinguish,  in  the  operation  of  her  own  thoughts,  in-  the 
nature  of  her  own  faculties,  any  traces  of  connection  or  affinity 
with  a  pre-existent  being,  or  any  marks  of  an  origin  esssential- 
ly  superior  to  the  rest  of  mankind.  Besides,  Pamphela,  by  as- 
suming a  new  form,  lost  all  the  privileges  for  a  time  of  her 
aerial  and  disembodied  state,  without  any  adequate  or  intel- 
ligible motive  or  purposes.  To  the  scruples  arising  from  these 
sources,  her  confessor  had  only  to  alledge  the  material  possi- 
bility of  such  an  incarnation  ;  the  express  declarations  of  the 
Saint  to  her  mother ;  the  fetters  v/hich  are  necessarily  connect- 
ed with  an  human  or  embodied  condition,  and  the  effect  which 
time  might  have  in  unfolding  the  great  purposes  which  such 
an  incarnation  might  answer.  These  arguments  were  favour- 
ed by  her  vanity,  and  an  incident  that  happened  when  she 
was  about  twenty-nine  years  old,  at  once  confirmed  her  con- 
victions and  removed  the  inconveniences  attending  them. 
She  dreamed  one  night  that  she  was  performing  her  orisons 
in  a  private  oratory  of  her  owfi  palace,  when  suddenly  her  right 
side  opened,  and  there  issued  a  beautiful  and  youthful  female, 
bearing  in  lineaments  and  figure  an  exact  resemblance  to  her- 
self. The  sprite  regarded  her  with  heavenly  smiles,  and  wav- 
ing her  hand  in  adieus,  vanished  from  her  sight,  after  pro- 
nouncing these  words.  "  I  am  thy  second  and  better  self,  I 
have  cleaved  to  thee  and  guarded  thee  thus  long,  because  there 
was  no  other  earthly  sanctuary  meet  for  me.  Now  I  return  to 
Heaven,  but  stiil  will  I  watch  and  befriend  thee.  But  I  can 
hear  thee  only  at  the  spot  where  my  bones  lie,  and  that  is  the 
haunt  that  delights  me  most.  The  time  is  come  that  allows  us 
to  meet  there.  Farewell."  At  that  moment,  she  was  awaken- 
ed by  a  messenger,  who  informed  her  of  the  sudden  death  of 
Martin  the  bishop. 

She  was  very  naturally  disposed  to  consider  this  dream  as  a 
warning  or  message  from  above,  and  this  impression  was  con- 
firmed by  the  coincidence  of  the  death  of  the  noxious  bishop. 
By  placing  Alfonzo  in  his  place,  she  for  the  future,  render- 
ed her  will  absolute  in   all  ecclesiastical  affairs,  and  had  no 


^84 

further  opposition  to  dread.  She  forthwith  determined  to  build 
a  church  and  convent  at  Pamphilly,  worthy  of  her  opulence  and 
her  gratitude.  Her  immense  revenues  being  administered 
with  temperance  and  order,  allowed  of  very  large  funds  for 
prosecuting  any  work  of  this  kind.  On  a  survey  being  made 
by  her  order,  she  found  that  the  parish  of  Pamphilly  bore  a  con- 
siderable resemblance  to  that  of  Beverly.  That  it  was  a  smooth 
and  round  eminence  of  about  six  thousand  acres,  descending 
on  all  sides  to  a  branch  of  the  Derwent  river,  by  which  it  was 
almost  encircled,  and  which  was  augmented  by  a  copious 
spring  situated  nearly  at  the  summit ;  that  a  fertile  soil  cover- 
ed a  rocky  bottom,  of  the  same  nature  with  Ulverstone. 
These  discoveries  gradually  enlarged  her  views,  and  she  was 
finally  determined  to  make  this  her  own  place  of  abode.  It 
was  at  present  nearly  covered  by  an  ancient  forest  of  oak,  and 
occupied  only  by  the  little  village  of  Pamphilly.  The  new  bishop 
transferred  it  to  her  in  exchange  for  other  lands  of  more  than 
equal  value,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Beverl)-. 

In  deciding  on  a  plan  for  her  intended  structure,  the  coun- 
tess was  governed  by  the  reverence  paid  to  the  temple  of  St. 
Ulpha.  '  The  second  Arthur  persuaded  himself,  or  endeavour- 
ed to  persuade  others,  that  his  temple  was  designed  under  the 
special  and  immediate  inspiration  of  his  celestial  patron  :  or 
rather,  when  the  opinion  was  adopted,  that  the  second  was 
merely  the  incarnation  of  the  first  Arthur,  it  followed  that  ail 
his  acts  and  purposes  carried  with  them  a  sanction  and  authori- 
ty superior  to  those  of  common  mortals.  Hence  the  original 
plan  of  St.  Ulpha  was  scrupulously  followed  by  the  successors 
of  the  deified  bishop,  and  this  plan  was  fortunately  construct- 
ed in  so  ample  and  comprehensive  a  scale,  that  the  unlooked 
for  zeal  and  opulence,  and  ingenuity  of  subsequent  times 
were  no  more  than  able,  though  they  were  fully  able,  to  exe- 
cute and  fill  up  the  stupendous  outline. 

Among  the  reveries  of  the  bishop,  there  were  many  that  re- 
lated to  the  local  circumstances  of  that  Heaven  or  paradise 
destined  for  the  future  abode  of  the  good.  All  images  of  this 
kind,  so  far  as  they  approach  distinctness,  must  necessarily 
correspond  with  the  object  of  terrestrial  experience.  The  only 
imaginable  perfection  must  consist  in  certain  events  and  quali- 


286 

ties,  of  our  present  existence,  rendered  absolute  and  perpetual. 
Thus  the  condition  of  the  blessed,  is  always  made  up  in  human 
contemplations,  of  such  images  as  health,  intellectual  activity, 
the  social  and  benevolent  affections,  enjoyed  and  exercised  in 
the  highest  degree,  and  with  endless  and  uninterrupted  duration. 
Of  physical  incidents,  we  have  all  those  that  are  most  valued  at 
present :  lights  permanent,  universal,  salutary  and  even  nutri- 
cious ;  temperature,  delicious  and  uniform,  and  all  manner  of 
agreeable  accommodation  exuberantly  and  spontaneously  sup- 
plijjd  :  all  celestial  visions  are  naturally  connected  with  images 
of  the  benefactor  or  disposer  of  these  goods,  and  the  pleasure 
which  accompanies  gratitude  and  devotion,  even  here  leads  us 
to  conceive  that  these  will  be  the  predominant  emotions 
and  employments  in  paradise.  In  minds  accustomed  to  the 
pomp  of  a  ceremonious  religion,  th"e  images  of  music,  temple, 
altar,  sanctuary,  naturally  find  place,  and  Heaven  in  all  these 
particulars,  is  but  a  splendid  improvement  of  earthly  plans. 
In  men  of  architectural  taste,  these  visions  of  glory  and  felicity 
have  alwavs  an  intimate  connection  with  buildings.  In  their 
ages,  the  paradisical  landscape  is  always  filled  with  architectu- 
ral magnificence,  and  in  the  paradises  of  a  Gothic  Saint,  or 
poet,  their  peculiar  hand  will  be  known  by  many  a  towered 
structure,  high  with  glistering  spires  and  pinnacles  adorned. 
It  was  not  surprising  therefore  that  the  episcopal  designer  of 
Belminster  should  consider  the  utmost  exertion  of  his  own  fan- 
cy in  this  way  as  vying  in  magnificence  with  any  thing  con- 
trived by  celestial  builders,  and  the  work  of  invention  in  all 
the  arts,  is,  to  the  inventor,  so  much  like  inspiration,  that  he 
could  hardly  escape  the  belief  that  the  aid  which  he  earnestly- 
craved  was  actually  granted.  I  have  resolved,  said  he,  in  his 
orisons,  to  build  an  house  worthy  of  thee.  So  thou  hover 
near,  while  I  labour  on  the  plan.  Guide  my  pencil  thyself, 
and  be  it  thy  work,  not  mine.  Thou  dost  approach.  Thou 
guidest  my  hand.  The  work  is  thine,  not  mine,  and  be  it  sa- 
crilege in  me  and  my  successors  to  vary  in  the  least  from  what 
thou  hast  willed  it  to  be.  In  this  temple,  thou  hast  but  copi- 
ed thy  own  celestial  mansion,  and  it  is  a  sublunar}^  home  thou 
wilt  not  disdain.  Sometimes,  well  pleased,  thou  wilt  Avalk 
here.     The  multitude  of  thy  worshippers  shall  know  thy  pre- 


287 

sence,  and  thou  wilt  love  the  house  that  is  dedicated  to  thee, 
and  that  is  most  like  to  thy  own,  which  is  in  Heaven.  This  was 
certainly  a  sufficient  foundation  to  build  the  devout  belief  that 
St.  Ulpha  was  a  temple  of  peculiar  sanctity,  and  a  lovely  copy 
of  the  temples  of  Heaven.  This  sacredness  however  belongs 
only  to  the  grand  plan,  and  general  distribution.  It  is  not 
connected  either  with  the  materials,  the  actual  dimensions,  or 
the  ornaments  of  the  elevation.  In  all  these  respects,  a  crea- 
tive fancy  will  naturally  picture  the  temple  of  the  heavenly 
Ulpha  as  magically  wrought  out  of  a  single  germ,  as  large 
enough  to  cover  the  surface  of  a  kingdom,  and  as  containing  a 
million  of  historical  scenes  in  the  face  of  a  single  tablet.  In 
these  respects  devout  or  poetical  fancies  enjoy  an  unlimited 
range,  while  the  scene  before  them  is  a  commodious  guide  and 
a  powerful  prompter  to  their  invention.  The  earthly  material 
consists  only  of  plain  dull  and  ponderous  stone,  while  a 
nearer  imitation  of  supernal  magnificence  has  been  sometimes 
attempted  by  the  patience  of  monastic  ingenuity,  in  minia- 
ture models  of  gold,  silver,  ivory  or  glass. 

All  the  churches  of  Bevernshire  are  in  some  respects,  copies 
of  Belminster.  Their  dimensions,  however,  are  much  smaller, 
and,  with  one  exception,  the  members  less  complete.  The 
countess  Pamphela  was  at  first  determined  to  produce  an  en- 
tire copy,  varying  only  in  some  of  the  dimensions.  She  was 
afraid  of  attempting  a  copy  of  the  full  size,  but  her  vanity 
was  gratified,  by  producing  a  more  magnificent  and  spacious 
structure,  relatively  considered,  while  the  breadth  and  length 
of  the  whole,  and  of  all  the  parts,  were  "reduced  to  two  thirds, 
the  height  was  made  the  same,  by  the  addition  of  a  fourth 
story,  hence  the  number  of  apartments  in  the  mansion  will  be 
augmented  by  one  third,  and  the  relative  height  of  the  roof  of 
the  walks  and  cells  is  encreased  in  the  same  proportion.  In 
the  style,  the  ornamental  Gothic  of  the  fifteenth  century,  would 
of  course  be  liberally  introduced,  while  the  several  modes  of 
the  former  age  are  exemplified  in  the  ancient  edifice.  This  di- 
versity in  size  and  ornament  very  happily  coincided  with  the 
analogy  between  the  respective  divinities  or  genii  of  these  tem- 
ples ;  one  of  them  being  masculine,  and  connected  with  the 
general  lav  s  and  institutions  of  the  country,  and  the  other  be- 


287 

ing  peculiarly  dedicated  to  the  honour  and  use  of  women. 
The  former,  agreeably  to  this  distinction,  is  gigantic,  ponder- 
ous, plain  and  massy,  while  the  other  is  comparatively  light, 
slender,  airy  and  highly  decorated.  Pope  Felix  of  this  fami- 
ly, and  his  sister,  the  dame  of  Whitney,  in  the  ensyii)g  centu- 
ry engrafted  all  the  forms  of  the  Grecian  and  Roman  architec- 
ture, from  the  same  plan  :  the  former  adopting  a  proportion 
one  ninth  less,  and  the  latter  a  proportion  two  ninths  less 
than  those  of  St.  Ulpha's.  Hence  there  are  two  Gothic  and 
two  padodian  models  of  this  great  design,  including  the  de- 
grees of  size  from  six  to  nine  while  Bevernshire  exhibits  a 
vast  number  of  less  complex  edifices,  moulded  after  the  same 
pattern,  but  having  less  dimensions. 

The  Templum  Felecianum^  or  church  and  convent  of  St.  Ul- 
pha  at  Rome,  was  the  favourite  project  of  that  Pontiff,  and  on 
which  he  lavished  a  vast  deal  of  taste  and  wealth.  It  is  among  the 
most  splendid  edifices  in  Christendom,  and  the  only  one  upon 
the  continent,  in  which  the  Morgan  or  Pelagian  ritual  is  used. 
The  pope  made  it  his  favourite  residence  and  all  the  treasures 
of  sculpture,  painting,  tapestry  and  mosaic,  are  collected  in  it. 
It  was  a  convent  appropriated  to  the  English  nation,  females 
onlv  of  that  nation  being  admitted  into  it,  and  placed  under  the 
patronage  of  the  Italian  branch  of  the  Carril  family.  The 
only  survivor  of  this  family,  the  cardinal  of  Berven,  a  man 
eighty  years  old  and  upward,  was  compelled  to  flight,  on  the 
revolution  which  the  French  effected  latelv  in  Rome.  His 
English  extraction,  and  his  great  zeal  against  the  invaders 
made  him  peculiarly  noxious  to  these  ministers  of  havock. 
All  his  estates  were  confiscated,  and  this  convent  was  pil- 
laged. 

These  events  were  in  some  degree  foreseen  by  the  earl  pala- 
tine, and  he  was  extremely  anxious  to  rescue  his  kinsman  from 
the  impending  ruin.  He  was  likewise  ardently  desirous  of  pre- 
serving the  precious  as  well  as  sacred  contents  of  this  convent 
and  palace,  from  the  destructive  cupidity  of  the  French,  and  bv 
the  Same  means  to  enrich  England  with  the  most  splendid 
monuments  of  the  arts  which  Italy  contained.  The  calami- 
ties  of   Rome,   occasioned   bv    the  French   in\-asion,  onerated 


288 

most  propitiously  upon  the  views  of  the  earl  palatine,  and 
enabled  him  to  accompany  a  wish,  which,  when  it  was  formed, 
might  have  been  ranked  Vv-ith  impossibilities. 

When  he  first  visited  Italy  with  his  sister  Ellen,  in  1729, 
they  hastened  with  equal  zeal  and  curiosity  to  the  shrine  of 
St.  Ulpha  at  Rome.  In  the  midst  of  their  admiration  of  innu- 
merable works  of  art  it  contained,  the  sister  observed,  fanci- 
fully, that  if  the  wand  of  the  builder-devil  in  Milton  could 
transfe;*  a  temple  ready  built,  as  easily  as  it  could  raise  one 
from  the  ground,  and  she  could  get  hold  of  it  for  one  happy 
moment,  she  would  forthwith  try  its  power  on  the  church  before 
them,  and  set  it  quietly  down  in  one  corner  of  Bevernshire, 
walls,  statues,  pictures,  ruins,  and  all.  The  brother  smiled, 
and  observed  that  it  did  not  require  a  miraculous  word  to  trans- 
fer all  that  was  of  any  value.  An  house  of  the  same  kind 
might  be  built,  with  the  old  fashioned  tools  of  chissel  and 
trowel,  and  a  stout  ship  might  safely  transport  all  the  movea- 
bles before  them.  That  said  the  sister,  is  as  impossible  moral- 
ly, as  the  other  is  physically.  The  brother  however  lived  to 
see  this  removal  actually  take  place. 

The  progress  of  the  French  revolution  gradually  converted 
England  into  a  refuge  for  the  Catholic  religion,  even  from  Rome 
itself;  and  the  vigilance  of  the  earl  palatine  enabled  the  cardi- 
nal to  transport  in  safety  hither,  not  only  his  person  and  mo- 
ney, but  eveiy  thing  moveable  in  his  palace  ;  every  thing  which 
could  be  detached  from  the  walls  without  material  injury.  The 
great  and  valuable  library  ;  all  the  contents  of  the  museum  in 
statuary,  reliefs,  and  medals  ;  all  the  appendages  and  orna- 
ments of  the  sanctuary,  together  with  all  the  plate,  cabinet  and 
furniture  were  carried  to  England,  and  deposited  with  little 
variation  of  their  ancient  ordei-. 

Bcda  relates  that  among  the  manuscripts  transmitted  to  him 
from  Rome,  as  having  been  carried  thither  by  Morgan,  was  a 
copy  of  a  translation  into  Latin  verse  of  David's  Psalms,  to- 
gether with  thirteen  tragedies  in  the  same  language.  Accord- 
ing to  Morgan,  these  were  the  works  of  the  eleventh  Arthur, 
composed  during  his  residence  at  Rome,  and  where  he  receiv- 
ed his  education.  They  were  introduced  into  religious  wor- 
ship by  him,  on   his   return  to   Aitland,  and    were   gradually 


^89 

adopted  by  many  of  the  churches  of  the  island.  This  circum- 
stance gave  them  extraordinary  sanctity  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Saxon  converts,  and  especially  of  the  members  of  this  convent. 
When  Beda  became  abbot,  he  introduced  this  psaltry  into  the. 
use  of  his  own  church,  and  obtained  the  papal  sanction  for  the 
innovation.  All  the  churches  of  Bevern  successively  adopted 
this  ritual,  and  have  maintained  it  till  the  present  day.  Though 
an  exception  to  the  Roman  methods  of  worship,  it  has  always 
been  considered  as  orthodox,  within  certain  limits.  In  the  Ro- 
man Pamphiline  convent,  this  ritual  was  likewise  employed  ex- 
clusively of  all  others. 

The  Psalms  of  David  are  the  genuine  effusions  of  a  man. 
dictated  by  a  great  variety  of  feelings  and  situations,  which 
occurred  during  an  eventful  life.  There  are  few  men,  there- 
fore, and  particularly  few  princes,  who  cannot  find  passages  in 
these  odes,  adapted  to  almost  all  Che  sentiments  and  incidents 
which  have  befallen  themselves.  They  are  addressed  by  Da- 
vid to  that  Divinity  who  ruled  his  own  destiny.  They  may 
therefore  be  addressed,  without  impropriety,  by  any  other  per- 
son to  their  guardian  power;  these  therefore  are  commodious 
vehicles  of  devotion,  which  have  been  employed  by  almost  all 
christian  sects. 

In  the  creed  of  the  Carthic  church,  this  particular  version  of 
the  psalms  is  the  sole  and  indispensible  instrument  of  worship  ; 
but  this  is  all  that  it  enjoins.  The  order,  proportions  or  times 
in  which  this  book  is  employed  is,  in  some  degree,  submitted 
to  the  choice  of  individuals  and  societies.  There  is  also  some 
licence  allowable  with  regard  to  proper  names  of  places  and 
persons.  Alterations  confined  solely  to  these,  and  so  managed 
as  to  produce  no  alteration  or  confusion  of  metre,  are  not  for- 
bidden. It  is  thus  that  these  odes  have  been  modelled  into  a 
series  of  hymns  addressed  to  Arthur,  Ulpha  or  Pamphila,  and 
adapted  to  the  Incidents  of  their  lives.  They  may  be  consider- 
ed as  forming  the  bible  of  this  sect,  from  which  all  its  verbal 
formularies  and  observances  are  taken. 

It  is  well  known  that  this  paraphrase  has  been  ranked  by  all 
critics,  with  the  purest  and  most  classical  productions  of  the 
Romans.  With  respect  to  time  Arthur  was  the  last  of  the  Ro- 
man, and  the  first  of  the  Christian  poets,  but  while  all  admirers 


290 

of  Latinity  read  him  with  delight,  the  habitual  impressions  of 
a  Gothic  reader,  give  a  sanctity,  significance  and  elevation  to 
this  poetry  which  no  one  else  can  discover  in  it.  Every  line 
and  passage  has  a  great  number  of  interesting  allusions  and 
correspondences.  Every  church  and  convent  in  Bevernshire, 
has  some  peculiarity  in  its  liturgy  or  psaltry,  but  the  store- 
house from  which  all  is  taken  is  the  psaltry  or  version  of  the 
psalms. 

This  version  consists  of  about  eight  thousand  lines,  which 
equally  divided  among  the  days  of  the  year  gives  about  twenty- 
two  lines  to  each.  The  simplest  ritual  therefore,  would  be  to 
divide  the  whole  into  365  parts,  and  assign  a  part,  in  the  ori- 
ginal order,  to  each  day.  A  more  judicious  system  would, 
however,  adopt  the  pieces  to  seasons,  occasions  and  anniver- 
saries, so  that  the  sentiments  expressed  may  bear  some  rela- 
tion to  the  day  or  the  event  commemorated. 

Beda  mentions  the  titles  of  thirteen  dramas  which  accom- 
panied the  psaltry.  Two  of  them  at  present  only  remain,  and 
these  two  began  respectively  the  series  of  such  as  were  con- 
structed on  Hebrew  and  Christian  subjects.  'J  he  originals 
were  built,  two  of  them  upon  the  history  of  Jephtha  and  Samp- 
son ;  and  four  of  them  upon  the  chief  incidents  of  the  life  of 
David.  The  latter,  Morgan  relates,  were  adopted  by  the 
modern  poet,  from  the  resemblance  which  the  .plots  bore  to  the 
transactions  of  his  own  life.  The  rebellion  of  Absalom  j  Da- 
vid's treatment  of  Uriah  ;  David's  exile  :  the  conquest  of  Go- 
liah.  The  seven  remaining  dramas,  commemorated  the  prin- 
cipal events  in  the  life  of  Christ.  The  history  of  John  the 
Baptist ;  Christ  in  the  wilderness  ;  Christ  when  a  youth  in  the 
temple  ;  Christ  tried ;  Christ  crucified  ;  and  Christ  arisen. 
In  these  performances  were  introduced,  in  pure  Iambics,  all 
the  actions  and  sayings  of  Christ,  recorded  by  the  Evange- 
lists ;  of  these  Jephtha,  and  the  Baptist  only  remain.  When  the 
judgment  and  eloquence  displayed  in  these,  are  considered, 
the  deepest  regret  is  felt  for  the  loss  of  the  others.  The  two 
extant  contain  about  2800  lines,  so  that  the  twelve  probably 
contained  about  16,800  lines,  and  including  the  version  of  the 
psalms,  about  25,000  excellent  and  classical  liner?. 


291 

In  the  sixteenth  century,  when  Latin  literature  flourished  so 
eminently  throughout  Europe,  and  especially  at  Carthew, 
many  ambitious  poets  of  this  college,  endeavoured  to  fill  up 
the  chasm.  On  each  topic,  there  are  seventeen  pieces,  the  pro- 
duct of  this  century,  of  considerable  merit,  but  those  of  bishops 
Osban  and  Elbert,  are  authoritatively  allowed  to  be  the  happiest 
imitations,  and  are  admitted  as  the  classical  and  orthodox  ob- 
jects of  academical  study,  and  religious  meditation. 

All  the  copies  of  the  psaltry  and  dramas,  are  supposed  to  have 
perished  in  the  conflagration  of  the  convent,  in  1140,  except  a 
single  mutilated  copy.  This  misfortune  arose  from  a  super- 
stitious aversion  in  the  church  of  Carthew,  to  any  dispersion 
of  this  work  beyond  the  walls  of  the  monastery,  nor  was  it 
without  a  solemn  synodal  decree,  that  the  bishop  Arthur,  was 
permitted  to  take  a  copy  from  the  house.  The  prelate  was  de- 
sirous of  having  this  treasure  constantly  about  his  person,  and 
obtained,  with  much  difficulty,  the  privilege  of  copying  with 
his  own  hand,  the  psaltry,  and  two  of  the  tragedies.  No  soli- 
citations availed  to  extort  permission  for  copving  those  relat- 
ing to  the  life  of  either  David  or  Christ,  and  though  all  of 
these  were  probably  had  by  rote  by  many  of  the  monks,  the 
massacre  of  the  whole  body,  extinguished  even  the  remem- 
brance of  them.  From  certain  allusions  in  the  epistles  of  the 
bishop  it  is  evident  that  this  convent  possessed  entire  copies 
of  Tacitus  and  Livy,  which  irrecoverably- perished  by  the 
same  event.  Its  rich  and  curious  library,  abounded  with 
historical  monuments,  and  possessed  all  the  manuscripts  of 
Morgan  which  Beda  had  procured  from  Rome. 

The  first  bishop's  manuscript  was  deposited  in  an  apartment 
of  the  new  house,  allotted  on  purpose  for  it,  and  has  ever 
since  been  regarded  as  a  sacred  relique.  All  subsequent  co- 
pies have  been  originally  made  from  this,  and  it  constitutes 
the  stndard  of  correctness.  It  is  unveiled  and  consulted  only 
by  particular  officers  and  with  religious  ceremonies,  and 
though  the  safety  of  the  temple  is  not  considered  as  depending 
on  keeping  every  copy  within  these  walls,  the  preservation  of 
this  copy  is  supposed  to  be  essential  to  that  safety.  The  art  of 
printing  has  multiplied  the  copies  of  the  work  abundantly,  and 
there  is  now  no  danger  of  its  perishing.     The  labour  which  most 


292 

other  ancient  writings  have  cost  in  comparing  different  manu- 
scripts, has  been  totally  unknown  with  regard  to  these  perform- 
ances, as  the  earliest  and  authentic  manuscript  is  still  preserved, 
and  what  is  very  remarkable,  there  is  not  a  single  demonstra- 
ble or  probable  error  to  be  detected  in  it.  There  is  no  instance 
of  misspelling  or  confusion  in  the  sense. 

Theatrical  exhibitions,  confined  however  entirely  to  these 
pieces,  have  ever  been  in  use  at  Carthew.  They  have  always 
been  considered  as  a  part  of  religious  worship,  and  times,  pla- 
ces, and  persons  have  been  assigned  to  them,  with  awful  and 
scrupulous  care.  All  the  magic  of  music  has  likewise  been 
joined  to  it,  and  splendid  orations  have  arisen  out  of  them.  In 
the  mansion  of  Belminster  there  are  two  apartments  called  re- 
spectively the  votarium,  or  votary,  in  which  the  Jephtha  is 
performed  four  times  a  year,  and  the  Baptisterium,  or  Baptis- 
terv,  appropriated  to  the  representation  of  the  Baptists.  These, 
as  being  the  genuine  performances  of  Arthur,  are  regarded 
with  most  reverence,  and  the  scenery  and  all  appendages  be- 
longing to  them  are  fixed  in  the  walls  and  ceilings,  and  are  im- 
mutable. The  Elbertine  and  Oshanene  pieces  are  performed  re- 
spectively in  two  other  theatres,  and  these  apaitments  are  deem- 
ed essential  to  every  large  and  complete  conventual  establish- 
ment in  Bevernshire. 

As  the  countess  Ulpha  continued  to  meditate  on  the  plan  of 
her  intended  shrine,  she  naturally  deviated  from  her  first  modest 
resolution  of  faithfully  copying  the  plan  before  her.  Her  imagi- 
nation gradually  placed  her  own  dignity  and  divinity  on  a  level 
with thatof  the  deifiedbishop,  and  these  variations  which  her  fan- 
cy suggested  and  her  judgment  approved  in  the  model  at  Bel- 
minster, were  represented  by  her  counsellor  Alfonzo  as  flowing  as 
truly  and  directly  from  inspiration  as  the  sketches  of  the  bishop. 
Hence  arose  all  the  particulars  of  the  plan  as  actually  executed, 
anfl  in  which  there  is  only  a  general  resemblance  to  the  great 
maternal  church. 

In  order  to  obtain  some  historical  knowledge  of  her  patroness, 
minute  inquiries  were  made  at  Ulwin  respecting  her  birth  and 
achievements.  These  existed  only  in  memory  and  tradition, 
but  Ulwin  was  so  secluded  a  recess,  and  the  people  had  con- 
tinued from  age  to   age  with  so    little   change  from  mi^-ration 


293 

or  intermixture  from  foreign  guests,  that  the  stream  of  tradi- 
tion had  flowed  on  with  an  undisturbed  and  undiminished 
course.  Five  centuries  and  twenty  generations  had  since  passed 
away,  but  the  legend  was  as  copious,  and  the  ballad  as  minute 
as  if  the  rehearser  had  been  a  witness  of  the  scene  described. 

The  countess,  accompanied  by  proper  scribes  and  registers, 
took  up  her  abode  for  some  months  at  this  village.  All  that 
could  relate  any  thing  of  Ulpha,  were  carefully  examined.  The 
rude  ditty  or  marvellous  tale  of  one  was  compared  with  that  of 
another  and  thus  an  entire  story  or  poem  was  framed  of  the 
various  and  disjointed  testimony  of  several  rehearsers. 

Happily  for  the  countess's  purpose,  she  was  informed  that 
there  was  a  very  aged  native  of  this  village  who  was  blessed 
Avith  a  remarkable  memory,  and  who  far  exceeded  all  his  coun- 
trymen in  the  extent  of  his  information  respecting  Ulpha.  This 
man  whose  name  was  Ralf,  had  been  for  many  years  in  the 
habit  of  wandering  through  the  kingdom,  as  a  tinker,  and  was 
accustomed  to  return  periodically  to  Ulwin,  and  spend  here  a 
few  weeks  in  a  year.  He  was  absent  during  the  visit  of  the 
countess,  and  she  was  so  anxious  to  procure  a  sight  of  him, 
that  she  sent  messengers  every  where  in  pursuit  of  him.  As 
he  had  pursued  nearly  the  same  route  for  forty  years  together, 
he  was  traced  without  inuch  difficulty  to  an  ale  house  in  a  lit- 
tle village  in  Shropshire,  and  conveyed  without  delay,  to  the 
palace  of  Beverly.  He  was  an  hale  and  cheerful  old  man, 
whose  age  according  to  his  own  account,  exceeded  ninety  years. 
He  still  retained  a  clear  strong  voice,  and  chanted  forth,  with 
great  melody  and  promptitude,  a  sort  of  ballad  or  tale  in  very 
rude  verse,  and  in  his  native  dialect,  and  consisting  of  up- 
wards of  eight  thousand  lines,  entirely  devoted  to  the  history 
of  Ulpha.  He  related  that  about  forty  years  previous  to  this 
period,  he  had  taken  up  his  present  mode  of  life,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  loss,  by  an  epidemical  disease,  which  laid  waste 
his  village,  of  his  w^fe,  and  a  numerous  family  of  children. 
In  order  to  amuse  his  solitary  rambles,  he  revolved  in  his 
mind  the  images  of  his  childhood,  and  gradually  revived  in 
his  memory,  all  the  verses  which  he  then  recited,  and  which 
he  had  heard,  in  mutilated  parts,  from  various  old  men  and 
women,  at  an  early  age.     He  was  chiefly  indebted  to  the  priest 


294 

of  the  village  church,  uiih  whom  he  used  to  sit  whole  nights 
together,  at  the  church  door,  and  to  whose  songs  he  was  wont 
to  listen  with  the  most  eager  and  devout  attention.  These 
fragments  he  put  into  chronological  order,  so  as  to  form  the  co- 
herent narration  of  the  birth, 'life,  and  death  of  the  blessed  UI- 
pha.  He  had  taken  up  a  notion  that  it  was  a  religious  duty  to 
recite  the  whole  of  these  at  least  once  a  month,  so  that  they 
were  fixed  in  his  memory  by  no  less  than  five  hundred  recita- 
tions. He  related,  however,  that  while  walking  or  working 
he  was  continually  and  hourly  employed  in  these  recitals. 
They  afforded  him  the  highest  delight,  and  this  was  betrayed 
in  all  his  looks  and  gestures  while  employed  in  singing  them. 

It  is  by  no  means  improbable,  that  the  old  bard  supplied  a 
great  many  links  in  this  long  chain  from  his  own  imagination. 
He,  however,  when  questioned  on  this  point,  always  denied 
with  marks  of  horror,  that  he  had  used  any  such  licence.  He 
considered  the  least  subtraction  or  addition  as  profane  and 
highly  criminal.  The  performance  was  taken  from  his  lips  by 
the  countess  herself,  and  all  the  obscurities  of  phraseology 
were  explained  at  the  time  by  reference  to  the  usage  of  the 
village.  She  likewise  translated  the  whole  into  literal  Latin 
prose,  and  regarded  every  tittle  as  a  sacred  and  infallible  re- 
cord of  the  truth. 

By  this  surprising  train  of  circumstances,  the  simple,  home- 
bred unlettered  daughter  of  a  shepherd,  in  the  most  obscure 
and  sequestered  part  of  England,  became,  after  an  obli\ion  of 
five  centuries,  a  personage  of  great  importance,  and  even  iden- 
tified with  the  most  illustrious  ladj'  of  the  age.  Her  bones 
were  taken  from  a  grave,  only  known  to  a  poor  hamlet,  and 
reinterred  in  the  most  magnificent  tomb  in  Europe.  From 
mere  mortal,  she  rose  into  a  powerful  deity,  and  her  name  was 
consecrated  and  adored  by  a  whole  conununity.  The  simple 
recital  of  her  actions  existed,  thus  lonp;  only  in  the  memory 
of  a  few  rude  villagers,  and  was,  indeetW;\t  last,  confined  to  a 
single  pilgrim,  who  had  chanted  them  for  }ears  in  highways, 
and  forests,  without  the  attention  or  respect  of  a  single  hearer. 
They  were  now  suddenly  recorded  upon  vellum,  studied  and 
rehearsed  by  queens  and  nobles,  and  a  palace  of  gold  and  mar- 
l)le  was   exvrmd   for  the  abode   of  those  whose  whole  duty  it 


295 

should  be  to  hymn  her  divinity,  and  perpetuate  her  memory. 
One  of  her  disciples  was  even  to  become  the  head  of  the  chris- 
tian church,  and  the  most  splendid  monuments  were  to  rise  to 
her  honour  in  the  metropolis  of  Christendom.  Such  was  one 
of  those  marvellous  turns  in  human  affairs,  which  indeed  are 
daily  occurring,  though  they  are  not  often  observed. 

Ralf's  poem  was  certainly,  in  every  point  of  view,  a  very  cu- 
rious performance.  Considered  as  the  work  of  untutored  ge- 
nius, it  reminds  us  forcibly  of  Homer  and  Shakespear,  and  we 
are  naturally  led  to  look  into  it  for  those  efforts  of  fancy,  subli- 
mity and  pathos,  which  it  is  sometimes  supposed  are  most  suc- 
cessfully made  by  such  as  enjoy  least  aid  from  education  or 
experience.  The  nature  of  the  subject  too  suggests  the  expect- 
ation of  extraordinary  novelty.  Instead  of  violent  and  san- 
guinary feats,  this  poem  records  the  actions  of  a  female  whose 
sole  ornaments  are  piety,  chastity,  forbearance.  The  love 
which  she  bears  to  her  God  and  her  fellow  creatures  is  fervent 
and  unbounded,  and  her  efforts  to  do  them  good  is  aided  by 
miraculous  power.  The  circumstances  of  the  time  enabled  to 
promote  the  common  good  of  the  whole  nation,  by  contributing 
to  the  safety  and  success  of  the  great  Alfred,  and  this  heroic 
prince  acts  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  plot  of  the  poem. 

The  revival  of  Roman  literature  in  Italy,  took  place  before 
the  conclusion  of  the  long  reign  of  the  countess  Ulpha.  She 
and  the  bishop  Alfonzo  were  zealous  patrons  of  their  im- 
provement, and  bishop  Melwin  who  succeeded  Alfonzo,  and 
who  received  an  Italian  education,  owed  his  elevation  chiefly  to 
his  proficiency  in  classical  learning.  He  gained  the  attention 
and  favour  of  the  countess  by  presenting  her  an  elegant  version 
in  Latin  hexameters  of  the  paem  of  Ralf,  with  a  series  of  above 
an  hundred  hymns  in  lyric  measure,  in  the  same  language,  in 
honour  of  St.  Ulpha.  The  countess  was  so  highly  pleased 
with  these  performances,  which  indeed  are  the  best  specia^ens 
of  modern  Latinity,  that  she  erected  on  them  an  entirely  new 
ritual  and  office,  and  they  have  since  been  exclusivelv  emplqy- 
ed  in  the  religious  exercises  of  the  Ulphalines.  This  order 
pays  them  the  same  reverence  with  which  the  Arthurites  regard 
the  psaltry  and  dramas  of  Arthur  ;  and  painting  and  sculpture 
have  been  as  copiously  employed  in  embodying  the  conceptions 


296 

of  Ralf  and  Melwin  as  of  Arthur,  especially  in  the  Roman 
convent.  In  the  Melwin  psaltry,  the  poet  has  artfully  inter- 
woven the  history  and  praises  of  the  two  Ulphas,  so  that  the 
chantress  in  signing  them,  unites  the  adoration  of  both  divi- 
nities. 

The  zeal  with  which  the  countess  prosecuted  the  design  of 
the  new  building,  enabled  her  to  accomplish  this  magnificent 
work  in  forty-five  years.  It  was  begun  in  1430,  and  she  had 
the  pleasure  of  settling  a  sisterhood  of  Ulphalines  in  this  tem- 
ple and  mansion  in  14/5,  and  of  surviving  this  memorable  and 
desirable  event  upwards  of  twenty-four  years.  She  had  pre- 
viously established  the  sisterhood  in  one  of  her  own  castles. 
The  seasonable  aid  of  Melwin  enabled  her  to  begin  the  new 
establishment  with  the  new  office.  The  bones  of  the  two  Ul- 
phas were,  in  due  season,  inclosed  in  the  same  tomb,  and  form- 
ed the  great  altar  of  Ulminster. 

Ulminster  is  divided,  like  the  other  convents,  into  manse, 
the  abode  or  habitation  of  the  members  of  the  sisterhood,  and 
kirk,  church,  chapel  or  temple.  Annexed  to  the  temple  arc 
four  great  edifices.  One  of  these  is  a  palace  designed  for  the 
abode  of  the  countesses  of  Athelney  in  their  widowhood,  or  at 
any  time  of  their  marriage,  provided  they  are  not  accompanied 
thither  by  their  husbands,  or  by  any  male  adult  person.  It  h 
the  seat,  at  all  times,  of  a  kind  of  conventual  establishment  or 
company,  who  are  placed  under  the  controul  of  the  absent  or 
residing  countess,  and  v/ho  form,  when  she  is  present,  her  pecu- 
liar household  or  train  of  domestics.  This  palace  has  a  pecu- 
liar kirk  or  cell,  called  the  queen's  cell,  which  with  the  remain- 
der, called  the  queen's  manse,  are  included  under  the  general 
appellation  of  queenstead. 

The  second  adjoining  edifice  is  called  frinestead.  Of  the 
three  classes  into  which  the  order  of  the  pearl  is  divided,  the 
third  or  frincs  as  they  are  called,  consist  of  six  or  eight  hun- 
dred persons,  and  their  deputies,  amounting  to  about  an  hun- 
dred, assemble  amuially  in  this  hall,  to  discuss  the  concerns  of 
their  class,  to  admit  new  associates,  and  to  weigh  the  claims  al- 
ledged,  or  compl  hits  made  to  them.  It  is  divided  into  an  hall 
(called  trenatis)  which  is  the  immediate  place  of  general  meet- 
ing, and  an  adjacent  manse,  occupied  by  a  company  M'hir.h  ai  - 


L 


"297 

their  attendants  at  their  meeting-s,  and  the  scribes  and  regis- 
ters of  their  proceedings. 

The  queen's  manse  contains  seventy-t^vo  apartments,  all  cir- 
cular, two  thirds  of  which  are  twelve  feet  in  diameter,  and  the 
remaining  third  twenty-one.  Forty  of  the  former  are  chambers 
or  closets  for  the  permanent  convent.  Four  of  the  latter  are 
chambers  for  the  train  of  the  queen  or  her  guests.  Four  are 
the  queen's  apartments,  and  of  the  remaining  eight,  four  are 
designed  for  piazza,  refectory,  kitchen  and  parlour,  and  four 
for  the  regular  employments  of  the  sisterhood.  When  the  es- 
tablishment is  complete  it  consists  of  forty  persons. 

The  frine  manse  contains  eighteen  apartments,  of  which 
twelve  are  chambers  for  the  resident  officers  of  this  class,  and 
their  domestics.  The  remaining  six  are  composed  of  an  hall  or 
thoroughfare,  parlour,  registry,  monitory,  discretory  and  orato- 
ry. They  eat  and  drink  in  the  great  manse,  and  their  laundry 
and  bath  are  at  a  distance. 

The  third  and  fourth  great  adjacent  edifices  are  constructed 
nearly  on  the  same  plan,  and  consist  of  one  great  hall,  with 
three  recesses  of  large  dimensions.  They  terminate  respec- 
tively the  grand  crosswalk  of  the  temple  and  are  essential  parts 
of  it.  One  of  them  is  designed  for  the  election  and  inaugura- 
tion of  the  prioress  or  dame  of  Ulwin,  and  for  that  ceremony 
which  annually  commemorates  that  election.  The  choice  of  an 
head  to  the  order  is  conducted  with  a  great  number  of  solemni- 
ties and  forms.  It  can  only  take  place  on  one  day  of  the  year 
which  is  the  anniversary  of  that  on  which  the  house  was  origi- 
nally consecrated  :  and  hence  in  the  Fasti  of  the  house  is  called 
Damesday.  The  ceremonies  attending  it,  are  minutely  detail- 
ed and  ordained  in  a  volume  called  the  Augural,  the  study,  ex- 
position, and  custody  of  which  are  the  province  of  two  officers 
called  the  auguralists.  Dame  or  domina  is  the  title  of  the  mis- 
tress of  the  order.  Hence  this  solemn  day  is  likewise  called 
dies  dominicus  or  the  dominical,  the  hall  aula  dominales,  or  the 
dominal,  or  dame's  hall,  while  the  apartments  in  the  manse  as- 
signed to  her  is  the  mansio  dominaris,  or  the  dominary. 

The  crosswalk  opens  on  the  dame's  hall  on  one  side,  and  on 
the  queen's  hall  on  the  other.  This  last  is  likewise  called  aula 
reginalis,  or  the  reginal.     The  queen  of  Athelney  cannot  exer- 

38 


298 

cise  certain  prerogatives  within  this  district,  belonging  to  her  as 
a  consort  of  the  king,  till  she  has  been  recognised  by  the  dame 
and  sisters,  and  this  recognition  must  be  made  in  this  hall.  The 
solemn  appearance  of  the  lady  here  is  a  necessary  part  of  the 
ceremony.  If  she  is  hereditary  queen  this  is  the  scene  of  her 
coronation,  a  particular  ceremonial  being  adapted  to  each  case. 

We  come  now  to  the  kirk  properly  so  called.  This  is  divi- 
ded into  three  parts.  The  porch,  the  walk,  and  the  cell.  The 
porch  is  divided  into  gatew^a}^  ingate,  fore  porch,  middle  porch, 
after  porch  and  two  bye  porches.  Four  of  these  are  separate 
apartments,  divided  into  several  stores,  making  in  all  an  as- 
semblage of  fifteen  rooms.  The  middle  porch  was  above  the 
rest  in  the  shape  of  a  square  tower,  three  hundred  and  sixty  feet 
high.  There  are  likewise  four  round  angular  towers  eighteen 
feet  diameter,  and  two  hundred  and  sixteen  high,  containing 
staircases  that  connect  these  apartments.  The  ingate  has  like- 
wise two  divisions  into  middle  ingate,  and  ingate  ends. 

The  walk  is  divided  into  tvv^o  parts :  outwalk  and  inwalk. 
The  outwalk  into  middle  outwalk  and  two  outwalk  ends,  of 
which  one  is  called  the  queen's  end,  and  the  other  the  dame's 
end.  The  queen's  end  is  a  vestibule  to  the  palace  and  belongs 
to  it  on  some  occasions.  The  dame's  end  opens  into  the  frine- 
hall. 

The  inwalk  is  divided  into  fore-walk,  cross-walk  and  after- 
walk  ;  to  the  latter  and  former  there  are  lateral  passages  called 
bye-walks,  the  fore-bye's  and  after-bye's.  Of  these  there  are 
two  tiers  or  stories ;  the  upper-bye's  and  lower  bye's  subdivid- 
ed into  upper  fore-bye  and  lower  fore-bye ;  upper  after-bye  and 
lov/er  after-bye.  The  upper  fore-bye  on  the  north  is  called  the 
queen's  walk  ;  the  south  upper  fore-bye  is  called  the  dame's 
walk.  The  upper  and  lower  bye's  are  also  more  shortly  called 
the  high  v/alks  and  low  walks  ;  the  after-bye,  or  high  walk  on 
the  north,  the  upper  alley  is  called  Ulsway,  on  the  south  Ella- 
way.  Those  under  are  respectively  called,  under-Ulls  and 
under-Ellas  ;  undcr-Queens,  under-Dames. 

In  each  of  these  bye-walks,  the  whole  number  being  eight, 
the  passage  is  divided  into  piel*-way  and  under-way ;  each  un- 
derway is  likewise  a  cell,  of  which  consequently  there  are 
ihiity-two  in  .all,  a  number  corresponding  with    the   elders  of 


299 

the  house.  Each  of  the  latter  therefore  has  the  peculiar  charge 
of  one  of  these  window  cells,  and  performs  the  office  of  an 
oratrix  at  its  sanctuary.  The  divine  power  that  presides  in 
each  of  them  is  supposed  to  be  the  good  genius,  or  better  angel, 
or  guardian  spirit  of  her  votaiy,  and  is  named  after  that  votary, 
numerically,  with  the  addition  of  Coelesti's,  thus  :  Prima  Seni- 
ora  Coelesti's  :  Secunda  Seniora,  &c.  &c.  or  more  briefly  Pri- 
mella  Secundella,  &c. 

The  cell  or  great  cell,  is  the  place  dedicated  to  worship,  and 
to  the  peculiar  worship  of  St.  Ulpha.  It  consists  of  a  central 
apartment,  surrounded  by  lateral  aisles  and  galleries.  The 
latter  open  at  four  points  into  the  central  hall,  and  are  divided 
into  five  stories  on  the  north  and  south  sides,  and  into  two 
stories  on  the  east  and  west.  The  lateral  galleries  have  each 
of  them  four  openings  into  the  middle  spaces,  while  the  east 
end  is  moulded  into  a  deep  semicircular  recess. 


1'Ii  F.  lordships  of  Orme  and  Walney,  came  into  the  king's 
V.  ardship  by  the  death  of  the  tenth  earl  of  Orme  and  Walney? 
with  no  other  issue  than  a  daughter  under  age,  in  the  year 
1195,  shortly  after  the  return  of  Richard  the  First,  from  Pales- 
tine. This  prince  had  been  extricated  from  a  perilous  situa- 
tion, near  Acre,  by  the  courage  of  a  military  friar  of  the  hos- 
pital. The  king  was  anxious  to  reward  this  service,  but  his 
preserver  merely  demanded,  that  on  the  king's  return  to  his  own 
country,  he  would  show  his  devotion  to  Heaven,  by  founding 
a  monastery,  and  calling  his  adviser  to  the  head  of  it. 

The  name  of  this  monk,  was  Arthur  Carril.  He  was  line- 
ally descended  from  Arthur,  a  chief  of  Cambrian  extraction, 
whose  family  had  been  in  immemorial  possession  of  these 
lordships,  previous  to  the  Norman  invasion,  and  who  possess- 
ed them  at  that  period.  A  }  ounger  brother  had  deserted  to 
the  Normans,  and  aided  these  invaders  in  expelling  the  lawful 
proprietor.  GeoflVy  D'Orme,  a  Norman  captain,  was  commis- 
sioned to  perlorm  this  service,  but  the  auxiliarj^  as  soon  as  the 
conquest  was  affected,  murdered  the  traitor,  and  obtained  a 
g;rant  of  the  district  for  himself  in  the  year  1080. 


JUG 

The  youngest  son  ot  Arthur  was  the  only  one  that  escaped 
the  ruin  of  his  family.  He  retired  to  the  continent.  In  the 
ensuing  one  hundred  and  fifteen  years,  his  descendants  experi- 
enced a  variety  of  fortune.  He  himself  went  to  the  Greek  ca- 
pital, and  by  ser\'ices  rendered  to  the  reigning  prince,  acquired 
favour  and  fortune.  He  was  made  governor  of  an  island  in  the 
Archipelago,  which  he  ruled  with  independent  authority,  and 
transmitted  to  his  heirs.  The  last  of  these  was  the  preserver 
of  Richard,  and  their  pedigree  was  carefully  preserved.  This 
Arthur  had  lost  his  new  inheritance,  and  was  a  volunteer  in  the 
christian  army  in  Palestine. 

Richard  on  his  return  to  his  own  country  forgot  his  vow,  but 
he  was  at  length  reminded  of  it  by  the  appearance  of  Arthur  at 
his  coart.  He  immediately  bestoAved  upon  the  exile  the  heiress 
and  estate  of  Walney,  and  erected  a  magnificent  abbey,  for  men 
and  women,  which  he  endowed  with  the  lordship  of  Orme. 
Arthur  did  not  choose  to  become  abbot  himself,  but  he  put  in 
his  stead  a  kinsman  and  friend  who  had  been  the  companion  of 
his  life,  and  the  canons  of  this  foundation  required  that  every 
future  abbot  and  abbess,  should  be  taken  from  the  Carril  family. 
This  institution  was  completed  in  1200. 

According  to  tradition,  the  first  apostle  of  this  district  was 
St.  Ulpha.  She  was  an  Armorican  princess,  who  married  the 
British  chief,  and  converted  him  and  his  people  to  the  true 
faith,  about  the  year  350.  After  her  husband's  death,  she 
founded  a  monastery  and  retired  to  it  with  her  nine  daughters. 
This  house  was  situated  in  the  Isle  of  Holioke,  which  contains 
within  its  precincts  the  remains  of  the  famous  old  tree,  under 
which  according  to  tradition,  the  first  christian  prince  was  bap- 
tized, and  which  has  ever  since  been  held  in  religious  venera- 
tion. This  convent  continued  to  subsist,  but  its  demesne  had 
dwindled  down  to  the  Isle  itself,  and  the  buildings  were  humble 
and  decayed.  A  new  abbey  built  and  endowed  by  the  first 
Norman  chief  rose  on  its  foundations,  but  St.  Ulpha  continued 
to  be  its  patroness,  and  her  legend  and  divinity  still  enjoyed  the 
veneration  of  the  monks  and  nuns.  On  the  restoration  of  the 
Carrils,  the  institution  was  new  modelled,  and  revived  with 
fresh  splendour. 


301 

The  new  institution  continued  in  a  flourishing  condition  till 
the  subversion  of  religious  houses  in  1540,  a  period  of  340  years, 
when  the  estate  was  given  to  the  earls  of  Walney,  with  all  the 
rights  and  jurisdictions  formerly  possessed  by  the  abbots,  to- 
gelher  with  the  title  of  Orme.  The  abbey  became  the  family 
mansion  of  the  new  proprietors,  undergoing  various  repairs  and 
alterations  from  time  to  time,  till  1620,  when  Edmund  Carril 
Orme,  the  earl  then  living,  took  it  down,  and  erected  in  its  place 
the  magnificent  mansion  now  standing. 

In  planning  the  new  house,  a  religious  observance  was  paid 
to  the  limits  and  distribution  of  the  ancient  abbey.  The  old 
foundations  were  anew  built  upon,  but  modern  splendour  and 
lonvenience  were  studied  without  regard  to  old  maxims.  In 
the  new  house,  the  hospital,  the  chapel,  and  the  library  or  col- 
lege have  pretty  nearly  the  same  dimensions,  shape  and  situa- 
tion with  these  parts  of  the  ancient  building. 

The  library  and  archives  of  the  old  monastery  are  still  care- 
fully preserved  in  an  apartment  of  the  present  building.  The 
plan  of  ttic  ancient  church  was  the  solid  rock,  reduced  to  a 
level,  and  is  still  the  floor  of  the  vaults  under  the  present  cha- 
pel. The  ancient  tombs  were  hollowed  by  the  chissel,  out  of 
the  solid  rock,  and  covered  bv  slabs  ;  of  these  slabs,  the  floor- 
ing of  the  chapel  became  in  time  almost  entirely  composed. 
Names  and  figures  were  engraven  on  these  slabs,  and  the  walls 
of  the  chapel  were  adorned  with  numerous  monuments  and 
arms.  The  ancient  chapel  was  about  fifty  feet  wide,  and  one 
hundred  and  tv.enty  in  length,  dimensions  that  are  still  preserv- 
ed in  the  present  vaults,  but  the  ancient  pavement  has  been 
sunk  thirty  feet  belo\v  its  ancient  level,  so  that  the  present 
height  is  forty- five  feet.  In  the  new  pavement  has  been 
wrought  tombs,  corresponding  with  the  ancient  ones,  in  which 
the  ancient  coffins  are  deposited.  This  apartment  is  at  present 
no^more  than  a  cemetery,  and  is  fitted  up  in  a  style  peculiarly 
solemn  and  romantic.  It  may  be  denominated  Gothic,  but  is 
modelled  with  very  great  simplicity.  It  has  aU  the  parts  of  a 
Gothic  church. 

The  nunnery  and  monastery  formed  somewhat  detached 
parts  of  the  same  building.  They  had  each  a  peculiar  cha- 
pel.    On  the  scite  of  the  chapel  of  the  nunnery,  is  erected  the 


302 

present  hall,  underneath  which  there  is  a  vault  preserving  the 
shape  and  dimensiors  of  the  old  chapel,  except  as  to  height: 
Avhith,  at  present,  is  only  thirty  feet.  It  forms  a  middle  aisle, 
twenty  feet  wide  and  seventy-five  feet  long,  and  two  side  aisles, 
ten  feet  wide. 

The  last  builder  of  Holioke,  before  he  took  down  the  old 
structure,  had  the  most  exact  views  and  plans,  and  the  most 
copious  descriptions  formed  of  the  old  building. 

The  house  in  town  built  at  the  same  time,  is  a  mass  of  build- 
ing one  hundred  and  seventy-seven  feet  six  inches  in  length, 
and  one  hundred  and  forty-two  feet  six  inches  in  greatest 
breadth.  It  consists  of  two  principal  stories,  thirty -two  feet  in 
height  each,  and  one  basement  story,  the  exterior  height  of 
vi'hich  is  twelve  feet.  The  rooms  in  the  basement  story  were 
fifteen  feet  high,  and  are  appropriated  to  offices  and  servants. 
The  two  upper  stories  contain  rooms  thirty  feet  high,  for  the 
use  of  the  famil} ', 

In  the  course  of  near  two  centuries,  the  interior  furniture 
and  decorations  of  this  house,  have  undergone  many  alterations. 
In  the  year  1786,  a  daughter  of  this  family  being  on  the  eve  of 
marriage,  this  house  was  allotted  for  her  habitation.  For  this 
purpose  it  underwent  a  thorough  repair ;  doors,  windows  and 
furniture  were  entirely  renewed,  and  with  a  splendour  and  mag- 
nificence, as  well  as  taste  and  beauty,  no  where  else  to  be  seen. 
For  forty-five  years  previous  it  had  been  the  constant  residence 
of  lady  Mary  Carril,  a  sister  of  the  present  earl,  who  had  been 
left  a  widow  in  her  youth.  After  the  death  of  her  husband,  on 
whom  she  doated,  she  retired  to  this  house,  and  here  she  pass- 
ed the  rest  of  her  life,  in  domestic  privacy.  She  hung  her 
lord's  picture  in  her  little  chapel,  and  whether  her  daily  ori- 
sons were  paid  to  God  or  to  this  image,  may  be  doubted.  In 
the  height  of  her  grief  for  his  loss  she  formed  the  resolution  of 
never  again  passing  the  threshold  of  this  house,  and  to  this  re- 
solution she  inflexibly  adhered.  Her  only  exercise  was  walk- 
ing in  her  garden  ;  her  only  employments  within  door  were  mu- 
sic, in  which  she  was  an  eminent  proficient ;  reading,  of  which 
she  was  very  fond,  and  the  superintendence  of  her  family,  which 
consisted  of  many  servants,  modelled  and  disciplined  after  a 
manner  peculiar  to  herself.     She  had  few  occasional  visits,  ex- 


303 

cept  from  members  of  her  large  family,  some  one  female  ol 
whom  generally  passed  a  few  months  in  the  year. 

Having  passed  much  of  her  youth  in  France,  she  contracted 
a  great  fondness  for  that  country.  Her  steward  and  house- 
keeper, an  honest  and  venerable  pair,  were  natives  of  Picardy. 
The  former  had  been  her  husband's  valet  and  favourite  domes- 
tic, the  latter  was  his  wife.  So  great  was  the  lady's  attachment 
to  the  French  language,  that  her  reading  was  almost  entirely 
confined  to  it.  Her  library  formed  a  very  large  collection  of 
French  books,  and  these  consisted  almost  wholly  of  memoirs 
and  histories  of  the  age  of  Henry  IV.  She  had  conceived  a 
whimsical  preference  for  the  manners  and  actions  of  that  period, 
both  in  France  and  England,  but  especially  in  the  former,  and 
her  collections  were  probably  more  complete  and  extensive  than 
any  elsewhere  to  be  found. 

She  enjoyed  excellent  health,  with  a  temper  naturally  be- 
nign, and  her  life  quietly  closed  on  the  seventy-first  anniversa- 
ry of  her  birth,  in  the  chamber  out  of  which  she  had  never 
passed  a  night,  for  forty-five  years. 

She  had  been  a  beautiful,  gay,  and  volatile  girl.  She  had 
married  her  cousin,  Valentine  Orme,  a  youth  as  handsome,  and 
debonnair  as  herself.  This  alliance  took  place  when  she  w^as 
eighteen  years  of  age,  in  the  year  1733.  She  and  her  husband 
spent  the  eight  years  of  her  marriage,  in  all  the  gayeties  of 
Paris,  into  which  she  entered  with  all  imaginable  zeal  and 
spirit,  not  without  some  imputations  on  her  prudence,  but 
without  any  on  her  virtue.  Though  rash  and  thoughtless,  her 
virtue  and  attachment  to  her  husband,  were  never  impeached. 
Her  levity,  however,  was  at  length  productive  of  fatal  conse- 
quences. One  evening  she  and  a  companion,  thoughtless  as 
herself,  disguised  themselves  in  male  attire,  and  went  to  visit 
a  famous  conjurer.  A  young  man  who  had  previously  made 
love  to  her,  but  whose  addresses  had  been  repulsed  with  scorn 
and  indignation,  accidentally  met  and  recognized  her  in  the  con- 
jurer's antichamber.  He  instantly  formed  a  plan  in  conse- 
quence of  which,  she  was  decoved  into  an  obscure  house,  and 
suffered  every  insult  but  the  last,  from  the  resentment  of  the 
lover.       It  appears  that  he  meant  not  any  violence  to  her  per- 


304 

son,  but  merely  to  revenge  by  all  manner  of  freedoms  of  speech, 
the  treatment  he  had  received  from  her. 

The  means  by  which  he  effected  his  purpose  was  this.  He 
had  come  to  the  conjurer's  on  foot,  with  a  brother  who  was  a 
boy.  He  had  observed  the  two  ladies  come  out  of  a  fiacre, 
and  in  spite  of  their  disguise,  recognized  them.  While  they 
were  detained  within  the  house,  he  made  a  bargain  with  their 
coachman  :  put  his  brother  into  the  coach,  and  taught  him 
the  part  he  was  to  act.  The  ladies  were  tired  of  their  adven- 
ture before  it  was  accomplished  by  a  conference  with  th^ 
wizard.  They  struggled  through  the  croud  to  reach  theii 
coach.  By  the  marquis's  contrivance,  lady  Mary  reached  the 
carriage  first,  and  threw  herself  hastily  into  it.  Here  she  found 
the  marquis's  brother,  who  seen  indistinctly  by  lamp  light, 
she  mistook  for  her  companion.  The  coach  with  the  mar- 
quis behind  it  drove  off,  and  stopping  in  a  dark  and  narrow' 
street,  the  lady  was  hurried  into  a  strange  house.  Her  terrors 
were  so  great,  on  discovering  her  situation,  that  her  ravisher 
became  alarmed  in  his  turn,  and  suffered  her  after  some  time 
to  return  home.  She  did  not  reach  her  own  house  before  her 
husband  had  taken  an  alarm  at  her  absence.  He  had  set  on 
foot  a  diligent  search  after  her,  but  in  the  midst  of  his  fears 
and  deliberations  she  arrived.  The  distress  and  disorder  in 
which  she  appeared,  required  some  explanation.  This  she 
unwarily  gave.  Next  day  the  marquis  and  her  husband  met, 
upon  a  challenge  given  by  the  latter.  The  husband  was 
killed  upon  the  spot,  and  his  opponent  mortally  wounded. 

Lady  Mary's  companion  in  this  frolic,  was  in  reality  in 
league  with  the  marquis,  and  had  persuaded  her  unfortunate 
friend  to  undertake  this  rash  adventure  at  his  instigation.  This 
discovery  by  no  means  blunted  the  edge  of  that  grief  and  re- 
morse which  this  catastrophe  awakened  in  her  bosom.  Her  cha- 
racter now  underwent  a  total  change,  and  the  rest  of  her  life 
was  spent  in  the  manner  already  described. 

The  direction  which  her  studious  disposition  took,  was  owing 
to  the  recollection  that  her  husband's  favourite  hook,  almost 
the  only  one  that  he  read,  was  the  secret  history  of  D'Aubigne. 
During  his  life,  neither  were  distinguished  by  a  passion  for 
reading,  and  D'Aubigne's    memoirs   had    gained  Mr.  Orme's 


305 

attention  merely  in  the  leisure  occasioned  by  a  fit  of  sicknesi. 
He  had  sent  a  servant  to  an  eminent  bookseller  to  purchase  the 
first  novel  that  came  to  hand,  and  this  was  the  work  brought 
back.  With  strong  minds  and  ardent  curiosity,  this  youthful 
pair  had  given  up  their  lives  to  gayety  and  dissipation,  and 
this  volume  was  now  valued  by  the  lady  merelj'  as  a  relick  of 
her  husband.  The  perusal  of  it,  however,  naturallv  excited 
inquiries  which  her  leisure  and  seclusion  from  the  world  ena- 
bled her  to  gratify,  and  she  thus  became  a  very  great  proficient 
in  the  history  and  literature  of  Daubigne's  age.  This  single 
volume  gradually  multiplied  into  a  very  large  library,  the  for- 
mation and  study  of  which  became  the  great  solace  and  amuse- 
ment of  her  life.     She  died  witliout  issue. 

Lady  Mary  had  a  twin  sister,  Elizabeth.  She  was  naturally 
of  a  sober  thoughtful  turn,  and  displayed  a  character  and  man- 
ners so  little  compatible  with  her  sister's,  that  there  never  was 
much  cordiality  or  intercourse  between  them. 

The  Devonshire  Ormes  had  only  two  representatives,  both 
sons,  Valentine  and  Ra}mond.  There  was  five  years  differ- 
ence in  their  ages,  and  in  their  characters  there  was  a  diversity 
somewhat  similar  to  that  which  existed  between  their  cousins. 
Valentine  the  eldest,  was  gay  and  luxurious  ;  Raymond  the 
youngest  was  grave  and  serious.  The  latter  being  a  younger 
brother,  turned  his  thoughts  to  a  profession ;  he  chose  the 
pulpit,  and  in  due  time  became  rector  of  Ormesbv,  an  office 
whose  duties  he  performed  with  the  utmost  punctuality.  The 
brother  on  his  accession  to  his  paternal  inheritance,  married 
lady  Marv,  and  carried  her  to  Paris,  leaving  to  Ra\  mond  the 
management  of  the  temporal  as  well  as  spiritual  concerns  of  his 
estate. 

The  Orme  family  had  been  for  so  many  years  in  the  habit  of 
intermarrying  among  themselves,  that  it  became  a  kind  of  a 
law,  a  fixed  obligation  to  do  so.  The  first  violation  of  this 
rule,  occurring  for  a  century  and  a  half,  had  taken  place  with 
regard  to  Miss  Tenbrook.  The  husband  of  Miss  Tenbrook, 
was  the  only  lineal  representative  of  the  Cumberland  branch, 
and  the  Devonshire  branch  happened  to  terminate  about  the 
same  time,  in  a  female.  A  union  between  these  was  claimed 
by  the  friends  on  both  sides,  a  thing  of  course.     It  was  indeed 

39 


306 

particularly  recommended  by  the  total  union  of  houses  and 
estates  which  would  have  followed  a  marriage  between  the  heir 
of  one  branch  and  the  heiress  of  the  other,  in  the  present  case. 
The  young  man  however  thought  proper  to  choose  another 
partner,  and  the  young  lady  being  left  mistress  of  her  own 
conduct  by  the  death  of  her  father  Sir  Osmond  Orme,  and  her 
guardian,  chose  a  youth  of  nameless  parentage,  whom  her  fa- 
ther had  patronized  and  educated.  In  this  case  however,  the 
breach  of  hereditary  rules  was  rather  nominal  than  real,  for 
the  fortunate  youth  was  suspected,  with  some  reason,  to  be  the 
nephew  of  his  patron,  and  consequently  cousin  to  his  patron's 
daughter.  His  patron  had  a  younger  brother,  left  by  their  fa- 
ther's will  wholly  dependant  upon  him.  This  brother  had  mor- 
tally offended  Sir  Osmond  by  marrying  out  of  the  family  pale, 
and  a  woman  of  inferior  rank.  The  offender  had  retired  with 
his  wife  to  a  foreign  country,  and  both  of  them  had  died  in  po- 
verty and  misery,  all  applications  to  Sir  Osmond  for  relief  be- 
ing ineffectual.  It  is  supposed  that  the  exile  left  an  infant 
child  at  his  death,  whom  he  had  ordered  his  nurse  to  carry  to 
Sir  Osmond  with  a  letter  written  in  his  dying  hours.  Sir  Os- 
mond received  this  letter,  provided  for  the  nurture  and  educa- 
tion of  the  child,  but  had  never  admitted  him  to  the  rights  of  a 
kinsman ;  on  the  contrary,  the  nurse  w^as  directed  to  call  the 
child  her  own.  The  Ind  accordingly  went  by  her  name,  which 
was  Walter ;  proper  care  was  taken  of  the  child's  instruction. 
He  received  a  liberal  education,  and  being  of  a  serious  turn, 
/in  due  season  took  orders.  He  was  presented  with  the  Recto- 
ry of  Ormsby,  and  finally  married  the  heiress  of  his  patron. 

Raymond,  as  we  have  already  said,  copied  his  father's  ex- 
ample, assumed  the  gown,  acquired  the  i*ectory  of  Ormesby, 
married  his  cousin  Elizabeth  of  Orme,  and  by  the  death  of  his 
elder  brother  in  1741,  acquired  full  possession  of  the  title  and 
estate. 

This  marriage  was  productive  of  four  children,  the  youngest 
of  whom  was  a  son  born  in  1 750,  The  son  only  lived  to  reach 
maturity,  and  was  married  to  the  only  daughter  of  his  mother's 
youngest  sister  Jane,  in  1774.  The  only  fruit  of  this  marriage 
was  a  son,  born  in  1775,  and  now  the  heir  apparent  of  the  fa- 


.  307 

inily  of  Orme,  all  their  honours  and  estates  in  Cumberland  and 
Devonshire. 

Lady  Jane  Carril  was  the  youngest  daughter  of  earl  Vincent 
and  Miss  Tenbrook.  She  had  wit  and  beauty  like  her  sisters, 
hut  licr  destiny  was  widely  different  from  theirs.  Her  father 
was  far  from  desirous  that  his  children  should  follow  his  own 
example  in  matrimony.  His  family  pride  had  yielded  to  his 
passion  in  his  own  choice,  but  his  feelings  could  not  admit  a 
similar  excuse  for  the  deviation  of  his  children.  His  sons  gave 
him  no  reason  for  regret  or  displeasure  on  this  score»  for  none 
of  them  married.  His  two  eldest  daughters  married  agreeably 
to  his  wishes,  but  the  younger  was  not  quite  so  obsequious. 
Indeed  a  match  equally  suitable  for  her  was  impossible,  since 
the  two  Devonshire  Ormes  were  already  given  to  her  sisters, 
and  the  name  was  confined  to  her  own  family  and  theirs,  and 
the  tie  of  kindred  between  them  and  the  rest  of  mankind  was 
faint  and  remote.  With  regard  to  her  therefore,  should  she 
marry  at  all,  there  seemed  to  be  a  necessity  of  disregarding  the 
established  rule.  Her  father  was  desirous  of  avoiding  this 
dilemma  by  keeping  her  unmarried  altogether.  This  expedi- 
ent, her  ardent  and  impetuous  character  made  very  hazardous. 
She  loved  society  and  pleasure,  and  could  not  be  prevented  from 
mixing  much  with  the  world.  She  however  remained  single  to 
the  age  of  twent}'-six,  some  years  after  her  father's  death,  when 
with  the  reluctant  consent  of  her  brothers,  she  married  the  son 
of  the  count  of  Florae,  in  174G. 

The  Martils,  counts  of  Florae,  were  among  the  oldest  and 
wealthiest  nobility  of  France.  This  young  man  was  the  only 
heir  of  the  count  then  living.  He  had  gone  early  into  the  ar- 
my, had  distinguished  himself  greatly  in  the  wars  of  the  times, 
became  colonel  of  a  regiment,  and  was  made  prisoner  after 
fighting  desperately  and  receiving  many  dangerous  wounds  at 
the  battle  of  Dettingen.  He  was  brought  to  England,  but  was 
suffered  to  go  at  large  in  the  kingdom,  till  formally  exchanged. 
Between  the  Ormes  and  Martils,  there  had  formerly  taken 
place  a  family  alliance,  and  a  sort  of  kindred  or  relationship 
was  muiually  acknowledged  between  them.  The  old  count 
recommended  his  son  to  the  regard  of  the  Ormes,  and  they 
received  him  among  them  as    a  brother.     He    quickly  fell  in 


308 

love  with  Jane,  who  returned  his  passion,  and  the  approbatioa 
of  all  parties  being  gained,  they  were  married.  She  accompa- 
nied him  to  France,  and  went  to  reside  at  Florae.  The  hus- 
band, who  was  as  volatile  as  he  was  ardent,  soon  lost  all  in- 
ducement to  make  long  stays  at  home.  When  not  in  military 
service,  he  spent  his  time  chiefly  for  four  or  five  succeeding 
years  in  travelling.  During  this  time,  however,  his  wife  bore 
three  children. 

In  the  year  1754,  her  husband,  by  the  death  of  his  father 
count  of  Florae,  received  a  wound  in  prosecuting  an  affair  of 
love  in  Italy.  This  wound,  though  not  mortal,  disabled  him 
ever  after  from  moving  without  assistance.  With  an  heart 
soured  by  this  disaster  he  reluctantly  returned  to  his  paternal 
domain.  His  temper  naturally  impatient  and  irrascible  was 
rendered  still  more  infirm  by  the  misery  of  his  present  situa- 
tion, and  b}'  a  temper  in  his  lady  not  much  unlike  his  own  : 
they  quarrelled,  and  their  dissensions  rose  at  length  to  such  an 
height,  that  he  treated  her  with  brutal  violence.  Being  a  wo- 
man of  great  spirit  and  address,  she  formed  the  resolution  of 
escaping  into  England.  By  the  aid  of  two  English  servants, 
she  finally  surmounted  every  difficulty,  and  reached  England 
in  safety  with  her  two  youngest  children,  a  son  and  a  daughter. 
She  was  received  and  protected  by  her  brothers,  and  would 
never  listen  to  any  terms  of  reconciliation  with  her  husband, 
who  frequently  invited  her  back,  nor  gave  up  his  children. 

Her  two  children  grew  up.  The  daughter  Louisa  was  mar- 
ried in  irr4,  to  the  only  son  of  the  Devonshire  Ormes,  and 
was  happy.  The  two  eldest  sons,  Philibert  and  Bertrand,  re- 
mained with  their  father.  They  proved  excellent  men,  but  so 
deep  w^as  the  resentment  of  their  mother  against  her  husband 
that  she  involved  in  a  common  malediction  all  who  adhered  to 
him.  Her  own  sons  she  hated  for  living  amicably  with  their 
father,  and  m ould  not  suffer  the  children  she  brought  with  her 
to  have  any  intercourse  with  their  kinsmen  in  France. 

Tlie  old  count  died  in  1761.  The  sons  divided  the  patri- 
mony between  them,  and  lived  in  the  most  affectionate  harmo- 
ny. They  had  spent  their  time  in  improving  their  estates,  and 
extending  happiness  to  all  within  their  reach.  They  had  frequent- 
ly visited  England,  but  their  mother  could  never  be  persuaded 


309 

even  to  see  them.     They   had  been  affectionately  recognized 
and  treated  by  their  uncles. 

The  third  son  had  been  named  Lewis,  after  his  father ;  but 
the  mother's  indignation  was  so  strong,  that  after  her  escape 
she  changed  it  to  Walter.  Indeed,  she  herself  renounced  the 
name  of  Martil,  and  resumed  that  of  Carril,  as  well  as  be- 
stowed it  upon  her  children. 

Philibert  and  Bertrand  were  at  first  friendly  to  the  revolu- 
tion in  1788,  but  their  sentiments  soon  changed  with  events. 
They  remained  however,  in  France,  as  long  as  there  was  sufety 
in  a  quiet  and  neutral  department.  At  length  they  narrowly 
escaped  judicial  murder  under  Robespierre,  and  took  refuge  in 
England,  where  they  still  remained  (in  1803.)  They  are  be- 
tween forty-nine  and  fifty  years  of  age. 

Walter  was  of  an  innocent  and  amiable  character,  but  his 
capacity  was  so  slender  that  he  was  overlooked  and  almost  dis- 
pised  by  his  relations.  He  was  almost  wholly  without  curiosi- 
ty or  ambition,  and  complied  with  his  mother's  whims  and 
caprices  through  facility  and  cowardice  more  than  through 
judgment  or  principle.  She  passed  her  life  at  a  seat  in  Hamp- 
shire, and  kept  this  son  constantly  by  her  side.  He  was  brought 
up  in  ignorance  and  idleness,  doing  nothing  but  hunting  in 
fine  weather,  and  playing  the  fiddle  in  foul.  A  benign  apathy 
and  total  indifference  to  all  those  objects  which  engage  the  de- 
sires of  ingenious  minds  were  his  chief  characteristics.  Being 
always  treated  by  his  mother  as  a  child,  he  grew  up  to  the  age  of 
twenty-five  as  helpless  as  an  infant.  His  uncles  had  endeavour- 
ed ineffectually  to  tear  him  away  from  his  mother,  and  put  him 
into  a  situation  where  his  faculties  might  stand  a  chance  of  be- 
ing awakened.  She  would  not  let  him  go.  An  healthful  con- 
stitution and  a  life  of  idleness  naturally  disposed  him  towards 
the  sex,  but  he  had  neither  sense  nor  roguery  enough  to  pur- 
sue any  complicated  intrigue.  Among  the  females  of  the  fa- 
mily and  neighbourhood  there  were  many  who  were  ready  to 
encourage  his  advances  without  subjecting  him  to  any  laborious 
artifices  or  irksome  conditions.  The  mother's  notions  on  this 
head  were  by  no  means  extremely  punctilious.  Her  ideas  of 
the  exaltation  of  her  own  family  were  such,  that  nobody,  she 
thought,  was  worthy  of  matrimonial  alliance  with  it  v/ho  was 


31U 

not  sprung  from  kings  :  and  no  woman  ol"  humble  rank  was 
degraded  even  by  illicit  intimacies  with  the  offspring  of  a  Mar- 
til  and  an  Orme.  The  greatest  misfortune  she  dreaded  Avas 
her  son's  marrying  beneath  himself,  or  so  as  to  produce  his  se- 
paration from  her.  She  saw  no  other  mode  of  preventing  this 
calamity  but  by  winking  at  his  connections  with  her  own  do- 
mestics, or  with  neighbouring  cottagers.  We  may  easilv  ima- 
gine how  much  these  maxims  of  the  mother,  and  this  conduct  in 
the  son,  contributed  to  narrow  his  views,  and  deprave  his  taste. 
Yet  the  lady  possessed  great  abilities  and  many  virtues.  In 
her  treatment  of  her  servants  and  dependants,  she  was  wise 
and  beneficent.  Her  conversation  was  rational  and  brilliant, 
and  her  deportment  to  her  neighbours  full  of  obliging-ness  and 
courtesy.  It  was  only  in  the  relation  of  wife  and  mother  that 
she  was  blameable.  Her  conduct  in  these  relations,  glaring 
and  enormous  as  it  was,  her  ingenuity  found  it  easy  to  justify  to 
herself,  and  to  palliate  to  others. 

Walter  had  never  been  sent  to  any  school  or  to  college.  A 
few  years  of  his  childhood  were  spent  under  the  care  of  a  do- 
mestic tutor,  who  was  sufficiently  disposed  to  perform  bis  duty 
had  the  mother  permitted.  Siie  assumed  an  equal  share  of 
attention  to  his  progress,  intermeddled  with  all  the  tutor's  mea- 
sures, would  not  allow  him  to  con  a  lesson  which  had  not 
received  her  previous  sanction,  and  all  chiding  and  punishment 
was  her  exclusive  province.  The  tutor  was  a  man  of  great 
mildness  and  forbearance,  but  his  patience  would  not  have 
sustained  so  severe  a  persecution,  had  he  not  been  bound  by 
contract  to  this  service. 

The  lady  had  procured  and  dismissed  no  less  than  four 
tutors  for  her  son  in  the  course  of  three  years.  She  either 
found  the  preceptor  indignant  at  the  controul  she  assumed,  or 
if  compliant  and  submissive,  he  was  disqualified  by  indolence 
or  incapacity.  After  getting  rid  of  the  fourth,  she  almost 
despaired  of  supplying  his  place.  She  wrote  to  her  brother-in- 
law  of  Ormes))y  to  find  her,  if  possible,  a  new  candidate  for 
this  arduous  ofiice. 

'i'he  rector  of  Ormesby  had  a  brother,  James  Boyle,  a  man 
of  learning,  piety  and  virtue,  who  had  been  educated  for  the 
church,  but  was  at  this  time  without  provision.     He  had  lately 


311 

lost  a  wife  who  had  died  in  child  birth  of  her  only  daughter. 
The  motherless  infant  had  been  taken  from  the  parent  by  the 
rector  of  Ormesby,  and  the  father  was  at  this  time  in  search  of 
some  means  of  decent  subsistence  for  himself  and  his  deceased 
wife's  sister,  a  worthy  woman,  entirely  dependant  upon  him. 
He  embraced  the  offer  of  this  tutoi-ship,  of  which  the  wages 
were  very  liberal.  With  this  stipend  he  settled  his  sister-in- 
law  and  child  in  an  agreeable  abode  in  Salisbury,  and  his  regard 
formed  his  principal  inducement  for  continuing  in  his  new  of- 
fice, notwithstanding  its  inconveniences. 

Lady  Jane  had  penetration  enough  to  discern  that  the  new 
tutor  was  more  likely  to  be  dissatisfied  with  her  than  she  with 
him.  She  therefore  offered  him  a  perpetual  annuity  of  three 
hundred  pounds,  provided  he  would  stay  with  her  son  seven 
years.  The  offer  was  accepted.  The  seven  years  servitude 
was  faithfully  performed.  At  the  end  of  this  period,  he  joined 
his  sister,  whom  he  then  married,  and  enjoyed  the  leisure  and 
independance  he  had  thus  dearly  purchased,  like  a  man  of  true 
wisdom. 

Mr.  Boyle  had  not  succeeded  in  making  the  lad  ambitious  or 
inquisitive,  but  he  extorted  from  the  mother  a  warm  esteem, 
and  from  the  boy  all  the  affection  and  gratitude  he  was  capable 
of  feeling.  Mr.  Boyle  was  descended  of  an  ancient  and  respec- 
table family  in  Wiltshire,  who  had  formerly  been  proprietors 
of  the  very  estate  which  lady  Jane  occupied.  His  father  had 
been  profligate  and  improvident,  and  his  estate,  being  mortgag- 
ed to  Tenbrook,  came  afterwards  b)-  forfeiture  into  the  hands 
of  his  heirs.  The  two  children  of  the  mortgager  were  taken 
at  his  death  by  a  kinsman,  a  dean  of  Exeter,  and  brought  up 
to  the  church.  The  eldest  brother  obtained  the  living  of 
Ormesby,  and  the  younger  was  situated  as  has  already  been 
described. 

This  respectable  pedigree,  together  with  manners  suitable  to 
it,  was  no  small  recommendation  to  the  favour  and  respect  of 
lady  Jane.  After  the  tutor  was  dismissed,  she  still  continued 
to  value  the  society  of  the  friend,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boyle,  to- 
gether with  their  daughter,  were  entertained  at  Holioke  every 
summer  for  many  years   with  great   cordiality.     Meanwhile 


3\2 

Louisa  Boyle  grew  up  into  a  charming  and  accomplished  wo- 
man, and  lady  Jane  became  remarkably  fond  of  her. 

Louisa  Martil,  notwithstanding  all  her  merits,  had  never  ob- 
tained an  equal  share  with  her  brother  in  her  mother's  favour. 
This  partiality  being  observed  by  her  aunt  Elizabeth,  and  that 
lady  having  no  daughter  of  her  own,  she  was  the  more  desirous  to 
get  possession  of  her  niece,  especially  as  the  familv  system  point- 
ed her  out  as  the  only  eligible  consoit  of  her  son.  She  easily 
prevailed  with  the  mother  to  part  with  her,  and  very  little  in- 
tercourse ever  afterwards  took  place  between  them.  The  aunt's 
notions  on  the  subject  of  female  education  were  widely  differ- 
ent from  the  wild,  chimerical  and  dangerous  maxims  of  the 
mother,  and  this  circumstance  made  the  interval  between  them 
still  wider. 

During  the  frequent  visits  of  the  Boyles  at  Holioke  some  in- 
tercourse could  not  fail  to  take  place  between  the  young  gentle- 
man and  the  young  lady.  The  habits  of  the  former,  without 
being  vicious  or  debauched,  were  so  low,  and  his  timidity  and 
disrelish  for  any  thing  polite  or  intellectual  were  so  great,  that 
the  fair  visitant  was  regarded  with  terror  and  suspicion.  He 
carefully  avoided  any  conversation  with  her,  and  found  the 
company  of  the  Kate's  and  Molly's  of  the  laundry  and  the  cot- 
tage far  more  congenial  to  his  taste.  Time  seemed  only  to  con- 
firm their  mutual  dislike  and  reserve  ;  and  the  mother  was  en- 
couraged by  these  circumstances  to  solicit  the  visits  of  Miss 
Boyle.  There  were  many  points  in  Miss  Boyle's  character  pe- 
cidiarly  fitted  to  endear  her  company  to  lady  Jane,  and  the  con- 
duct of  the  latter  was,  in  this  particular  case,  equall}'  adapted 
to  excite  the  esteem  and  affection  of  her  guest.  Hence  she  be- 
came almost  a  settled  i*esident  at  Holioke. 

So  idle  a  life  as  Walter  led,  seconded  by  youth  and  health, 
made  love,  if  his  passion  for  the  sex  might  be  called  by  that 
name,  his  chief  business.  The  zest  which  springs  from  rarity 
was  necessary  to  keep  his  ardours  alive,  and  from  the  age  of 
eighteen  to  twenty-five  he  was  engaged  in  a  succession  of 
amours,  whose  casual  difficulties,  obstacles,  discoveries  and  re- 
volutions kept  his  life  from  stagnation,  and  gave  exercise  to  all 
the  talents  he  possessed.  During  this  period,  he  had  been  suc- 
cessively connected  with  six  females  ;  all  the  daughters  of  his 


313 

mother's  tenants,  whose  acquiescence  or  connivance  in  the  se- 
duction of  their  children  was  compensated  bv  substantial  bene- 
fits and  indulgences  received  from  the  steward.  Hitherto 
these  intrigues  had  been  attended  with  no  tragical  or  disas- 
trous event,  but  now  an  incident  occurred  of"  a  trulv  shocking 
nature.  The  youth  had  obtained  the  favours  of  a  spirited  girl, 
by  a  series  of  long  attentions  and  arduous  services,  but  no 
sooner  had  he  accomplished  his  end,  than  as  usual  his  passion 
abated,  and  the  appearance  of  a  new  face  in  the  parish  caused 
him  to  desert  her  altogether. 

This  new  face  chanced  to  be  connected  with  an  honest  mind  ; 
and  both  the  girl  and  her  parents  were  too  proud  to  listen  to 
his  overtures.  The  youth  had  hitherto  been  totally  unaccus- 
tomed to  these  obstacles.  His  indignation,  as  well  as  his 
love,  was  awakened  by  such  sturdy  opposition.  His  mother 
was  weak  enough  to  enter  in  some  degree,  into  his  resent- 
ments, and  the  honest  farmer  did  not  escape  some  acts  of  op- 
pression. His  clamours  at  such  treatment  were  loud,  and  hejpre- 
pared  to  remove  to  another  country.  The  rage  of  the  girl 
lately  deserted,  arose  to  such  a  pitch  that  she  poisoned  her 
imaginary  rival,  together  with  her  father  and  mother. 

This  horrible  catastrophe,  including  the  public  trial  and 
execution  of  the  murderer,  reflected  infinite  discredit  both  on 
the  son  and  mother.  It  was  considered  as  the  natural  conse- 
quence of  the  strange  maxims  of  education  which  the  latter 
adopted.  In  this  calamity,  the  company  and  consolation  of 
Miss  Boyle  was  prized  by  lady  Jane  at  its  true  value.  The 
son's  passion  for  the  murdered  girl  was  now  combined  with  re- 
morse, and  a  total  change  took  place  in  his  deportment.  He 
became  silent,  melancholy,  gave  up  his  customary  out  door 
amusement,  and  spent  most  of  his  time  at  home.  In  this 
state  of  things,  a  little  more  intercourse  took  place  between 
him  and  Miss  Boyle.  The  awe  with  which  the  elegance  and 
dignity  of  her  deportment  and  conversation,  had  formerly  in- 
spired him,  was  not  lessened,  but  it  did  not,  as  formerly,  breed 
dislike  or  aversion.  On  the  contrary,  he  began  to  regard 
himself  and  his  own  deficiencies  with  contempt  and  sorrow. 

40 


3H 

Had  these  feelings  been  properly  understood  and  encouraged 
by  the  mother,  the  two  females  might  have  possibly  wrought  a 
total  change  in  their  pupil's  character.  The  youth  was  remarka- 
bly handsome.  The  influence  of  that  genuine  passion  which 
he  now  began  to  feel  called  forth  sentiments  and  wishes  whose 
existence  had  hitherto  been  unsuspected.  The  youtig  lady 
could  hardly  fail  of  being  aflfected  by  these  appearances,  and 
the  objections  which  her  judgment  might  have  made  to 
such  a  partner,  might  have  yielded  to  the  pleadings  of  affec- 
tion and  of  interest.  Considering  all  circumstances,  Walter's 
collateral  relations  would  not  have  withholden  their  assent. 
The  mother,  however,  with  her  usual  perverseness,  no  sooner 
suspected  the  tendency  of  her  son's  feelings,  than  she  fell  into 
a  rage  which  knew  no  bounds.  The  visitant  in  consequence, 
immediately  left  the  house,  and  her  father  being  dead,  return- 
ed to  live  with  her  mother  at  Salisbury. 

Walter  took  this  separation  so  much  to  heart  that  he  fell 
sick,  and  the  mother  frightened  at  length  out  of  all  her  scru- 
ples, condescended  to  implore  the  return  of  the  young  lady. 
Many  efforts  and  many  applications  were  necessary  before  her 
reluctance  to  return  was  subdued.  At  length,  her  delicacy 
being  fully  satisfied  by  the  amplest  apologies  and  concessions, 
she  returned,  and  married  the  desponding  lover. 

As  soon  as  the  mother's  apprehensions  about  the  life  of  her 
son  were  removed,  she  insensibly  relapsed  into  old  habits  and 
prejudices.  The  son,  in  like  manner,  having  nothing  further 
to  hope,  returned  to  his  ancient  careless  and  indolent  life. 
All  the  late  indications  of  a  change  in  his  character,  disap- 
peared. His  gun  and  his  dog  became,  once  more,  his  favou- 
rite companions.  The  vulgar  charms  and  awkward  coquetry 
of  milk  maids  began  to  acquire  their  customary  power  over 
him.  Every  day  disclosed  some  new  blemish  in  his  character, 
some  vulgarity  in  his  sentiments  and  habits,  and  the  regard  of 
his  wife,  which  might,  in  different  circumstances,  have  ri- 
pened into  love,  was  soon  entirely  supplanted  by  indignatioH 
and  contempt.  Her  disappointment  was  heightened  by  discover- 
ing that  the  sickness,  which  had  frightened  his  mother, 
and  herself,  had  been  feigned  for  the  purpose,  and  this  dis- 
covery, being  likewise   made   by   his   mother,   contributed   to 


315. 

make  her  tyranny  more  insupportable.  In  fine,  she  thought 
herself  obliged  to  separate  from  them  both.  She  returned, 
with  two  infant  daughters,  twins,  to  her  mother.  Her  mother 
had  a  sister  who  lived  in  Philadelphia ;  who  had  been  left  a 
widow  and  childless,  and  had  for  a  long  time  solicited  a  visit 
from  Mrs.  Boyle.  This  visit  was  now  paid  :  Mrs.  Boyle,  her 
daughter  and  infants  embarked  for  America,  where  they  arriv- 
ed in  safety. 

The  countess  of  Florae  had  displeased  and  offended  her  re- 
lations by  every  part  of  her  conduct.  Her  marriage  with  a 
Frenchman ;  her  quarrel  with  him,  in  which  they  were  inclin- 
ed to  attribute  at  least  half  the  fault  to  herself;  her  elopement 
to  England  ;  her  obstinate  and  unappeasible  resentment  to- 
wards the  count,  her  hatred  of  her  own  children  on  account 
of  their  adherence  to  their  father  :  and  above  all  the  ruinous 
system  she  adopted  with  regard  to  Walter,  all  contributed  to 
alienate  her  brothers  and  sisters  from  her.  They  had  been  for- 
tunate enough  to  wrest  her  daughter  from  her,  and  made  seve- 
ral attempts  in  conjunction  with  his  father,  to  tear  Walter 
awav  from  her  before  he  should  be  irretrievably  ruined.  The 
poor  l:idy  made  strenuous  opposition  to  all  these  attempts,  and 
to  keep  possession  of  the  boy,  cost  her  innumerable  precau- 
tions and  anxieties. 

She  was  extremely  jealous  of  her  independence,  would 
hearken  to  no  brotherly  or  sisterly  admonition  or  remonstrance, 
treating  them  all  as  impertinent  or  tyrannical  meddlers.  They 
always,  however,  cherished  a  sincere  desire  for  her  welfare ; 
they  contributed  to  induce  Mr.  Boyle  to  accept  the  office  of 
tutor,  and  his  daughter  to  marry  their  nephew.  They  admit- 
ted that  she  had  good  reason  afterwards  to  separate  ;  they  con- 
doled with  her,  and  offered  her  and  her  children  an  honourable 
asylum  among  themselves.  When  she  persisted  contrary  to 
their  wishes,  in  going  to  America,  they  offered  her  all  the  com- 
forts that  money  could  afford,  and  frequently,  when  the  revolu- 
tionary war  commenced,  solicited  her  to  return. 

T^e  fair  exile  was  a  character  somewhat  whimsical.  Her  at- 
tachment to  her  father's  widow  was  extreme.  She  followed  her, 
with  cheerfulness  to  the  new  world.  She  had  suffered  so  much 
from  the  pride  of  her  mother-in-law,  and  had  so  much  reason 


316 

to  consider  family  pndc  as  more  or  less  characteristic  of  the 
whole  race  of  the  Ormes,  that  she  conceived  her  own  happi- 
ne'-.s,  and  that  of  her  children  more  certainly  promoted  by  a 
total  separation  from  them.  In  these  sentiments  she  endea- 
voured to  bring  up  her  daughters,  and  took  every  opportunity 
of  instilling  into  their  young  minds,  a  contempt  of  the  pomp, 
and  horror  of  the  servitude  connected  with  rank.  Still  how- 
ever, she  maintained  a  friendly  correspondence  with  her  un- 
cles, and  disdained  not  the  little  presents  and  remembrances 
they  sent  her. 

This  lady  died  in  1785,  eleven  years  after  her  exile,  and 
when  her  daughters  were  twelve  years  old,  she  consigned  them 
to  the  guardianship  of  her  mother  and  of  Mr.  Sale,  a  respec- 
table citizen  of  Philadelphia.  She  left  them  considerable  pro- 
perty, and  h,tr  dying  wish,  expressed  in  a  letter  written  for  the 
use  of  her  daughters  when  they  should  arrive  at  an  age  suita- 
ble for  understanding  it.  This  letter  contained  imperfect  allu- 
sions to  her  matrimonial  history,  exhortations  to  her  daugh- 
ters to  remain  forever  in  their  present  country  ;  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  patrimony  she  had  left  them,  nor  seek  to  revive  any 
intercourse  with  their  European  relations. 

Mrs.  Boyle  cherished  the  same  sentiments  respecting  the  fu- 
ture destiny  of  her  grand  daughters.  She  was  strengthened  in 
these  sentiments,  by  circumstances  peculiar  to  herself.  She 
herself  had  no  personal  connection  with  the  Ormes,  and  every 
circumstance  that  should  tend  to  reunite  her  girls  to  their  pa- 
ternal stock,  would,  in  some  degree,  tend  to  dissever  them 
from  her.  She  therefore  favoured  the  separation  which  al- 
ready existed  between  them.  She  returned  no  answers  to  the 
letters  which  still  continued  to  be  written  to  her. 

Walter,  after  the  departure  of  his  wife,  sunk  into  habits  still 
lower  than  ever.  He  finally  became  a  sot,  and  died  before  his 
wife,  a  martyr  to  maternal  folly.  The  old  lady  indulged  the 
most  extravagant  affliction  at  his  death.  She  had  his  corpse 
embalmed  and  placed  in  a  coffin,  which  she  kept  constantly  in 
her  chamber.  jMany  other  extravagant  tokens  she  gave  of 
her  attachment ;  some  of  which  almost  put  her  intellects  into 
question. 


k 


517 

These  freaks  occupied  her  time  and  her  imagination  for  a 
while.  At  length,  her  thoughts  turned  upon  her  son's  chil- 
dren. To  these  she  imagined  she  had  an  unquestionable 
right,  and  was  determined  to  exert  it. 

She  had  never  been  made  acquainted  with  the  real  destinj' 
of  her  grand  children.  She  was  merely  assured  that  they  had 
left  the  kingdom  with  their  mother.  The  secret  was  known  to 
her  brothers  and  sisters,  but  they  very  wisely  withheld  it  from 
her.  She  made  use  of  many  expedients  to  obtain  this  desira- 
ble information,  but  all  her  endeavours  were,  for  a  long  time, 
unsuccessful. 

Her  daughter  Louisa  resided  with  her  aunt  of  Orme,  Sud- 
leigh,  till  she  and  her  cousin  of  that  family  arrived  at  a  mar- 
riageable age,  when  they  Avere  united  in  1771.  This  pair  was 
the  only  representatives  of  the  Orme  family.  The  two  girls  in 
America  were  equally  allied,  and  consequently  became  objects 
of  great  importance.  An  importance  heightened  by  the  cir- 
cumstance of  this  marriage  being  productive  only  of  two  sons 
who  survived  their  infancy.  The  American  girls  naturally  oc- 
curred as  suitable  wives  for  these  sons.  Mrs.  Boyle  declining  to 
I'eturn  any  answers  to  their  letters  written  after  her  daughter's 
death,  left  them  in  total  uncertainty  respecting  even  the  exist- 
ence of  the  exiles,  and  several  years  elapsed  without  any  inter- 
course between  them. 

Meanwhile  the  two  Ormes  of  Sudley,  Arthur  and  Herbert, 
grew  up  with  all  the  advantages  of  education  and  example. 
They  were  considered,  especially  the  eldest,  and  most  v.'orthy, 
as  the  heirs  of  the  immense  fortunes  of  their  family.  They 
were  two  virtuous  and  noble  youths,  whose  sentiments  and 
conduct  in  all  respects  gavfe  entire  satisfaction  to  their  friends. 
Their  marriage  became  of  course  an  object  of  great  importance 
to  their  friends.  The  youngest  was  sufficiently  disposed  to 
marry,  but  the  eldest  Avas  averse  to  it.  They  could  not  fail 
to  be  made  early  acquainted  with  the  history  of  their  family, 
and  were  very  desirous  of  recovering  and  restoring  them  to 
their  English  relations. 

Herbert  was  of  a  much  more  adventurous  and  roving  spirit 
than  his  brother.  His  curiosity  led  him  rather  to  converse  with 
men  than  with  books.     After  travelling  through  Europe,  he 


318 

obtained  leave  to  visit  the  new  states  in  America,  and  deter- 
mined to  find  out,  if  it  were  possible,  his  cousins,  and  persuade 
them  to  return  with  him. 

After  their  mother's  death  Mary  and  Eliza  continued  to  re- 
side with  their  grandmother  in  the  utmost  privacy,  finding  em- 
ployment and  amusement  in  domestic  studies  and  vocations. 
Sale,  their  mother's  friend  and  their  own  protector,  had  an  only 
son,  a  sober  and  exemplary  5'outh,  whom  he  brought  up  a  mer- 
chant. He  was  extremely  anxious  to  marry  this  son  to  one  of 
the  daughters,  and  in  April  1796  an  engagement  took  place  be- 
tween this  young  man  and  Mary  Orme.  Immediatelv  after 
he  took  a  voyage  to  Holland  to  settle  some  business  for  his 
father. 

In  the  next  month  Herbert  Orme  arrived  in  Philadelphia. 
He  soon  discovered  his  cousins.  He  found  them  eminently 
beautiful  and  accomplished,  and  soon  prevailed  upon  Elizabeth 
to  give  him  her  heart  and  hand.  Mrs.  Boyle  was  obliged  to 
consent  to  this  alliance.  She  was  now  old,  upwards  of  sixty, 
and  very  infirm.  All  overtures  to  return  home  with  her  daugh- 
ters were  rejected.  Mary  was  bound  to  remain  where  she  was 
till  the  return  of  Sale.  The  old  lady  was  obliged  to  be 
contented  with  the  company  of  Mary,  who  parted  with  her 
beloved  sister  in  the  hope  of  meeting  her  again,  when  her 
grandmother's  death,  and  the  arrangements  of  Sale  would  per- 
mit. 

The  two  sisters  had  passed  all  their  previous  lives  together, 
and  this  parting  was  an  inexhaustible  calamity  to  both  of  them. 
However  it  took  place  in  October  1 796.  Eliza  and  her  hus- 
band were  received  with  rapture  by  the  Ormes.  Holwell  was  no 
suitable  abode  during  the  life  of  lady  Jane,  but  the  hall  in  Lon- 
don having  become  vacant  by  the  death  of  lady  Mary,  was  pre- 
pared for  their  accommodation.  An  extensive  correspondence 
was  kept  up  between  the  sisters,  and  all  the  transactions  of  each 
party  communicated  to  the  other, 

Sale's  return  had  been  fixed  for  the  beginning  of  the  ensuing 
year,  1 797,  but  accidents  occurred  to  prolong  his  absence  for 
many  months  beyond  the  assigned  period.  In  October  1797 
an  accidental  interview  took  place  between  Mary  and  Coul- 
thurst,  near  the  country  residence  of  the  former,  where  the  lat- 


319 

ter  had  retired  to  avoid  yellow  fever.  This  acquaintance  ri- 
pened into  intimiacy,  which  continued  after  their  return  for 
the  winter  to  the  city,  in  November.  This  acquaintance  was 
assiduously  cultivated  during  that  winter  and  the  ensuing 
summer.  It  was  interrupted  by  the  return  of  Sale  in  Septem- 
ber 1798,  when  his  marriage  with  Mary  took  place.  He  re- 
mained at  home,  however,  but  a  few  months,  sailing  to  the 
West  Indies  in  May  1799»  where  he  died  in  August  follow- 
ing. 

Mary's  marriage  with  Sale  had  been  dictated  by  study  rather 
than  by  inclination.  His  death  left  her  at  liberty  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five,  to  form  a  new  and  more  agreeable  alliance.  Coul- 
thurst  was  the  choice  of  her  heart,  but  there  were  many  obsta- 
cles to  the  indulgence  of  this  preference. 

Lady  Jane,  at  her  death  in  August  1799,  at  the  age  of  eigh- 
ty-one, left  her  estate  to  her  two  grand-daughters  in  America. 
Just  before  her  death  her  friends  had  given  her  the  information 
respecting  the  place  of  their  exile,  which  she  had  so  long  sought. 
By  this  will  INIary  and  Elizabeth  became  copartners  of  three 
thousand  pounds  a  year,  on  condition  that  within  four  years 
after  her  death  they  both  made  their  appearance  in  England, 
before  her  executors,  with  sufficient  proof  of  their  identity.  In 
case  of  their  death  or  either  of  them  not  appearing  as  directed, 
the  whole  was  devised  to  Jacob  Folks,  an  attorney  of*  Salisbur}', 
who  had  formerly  been  her  steward. 

Holwell  was  a  very  noble  patrimony  of  7000  acres.  It  had 
many  claims  besides  its  value  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view,  to 
the  affection  of  the  Carril's.  It  was  the  only  landed  property 
brought  into  the  family  by  Miss  Tenbrook.  It  was  there  that 
she  passed  a  good  deal  of  her  time,  and  where  several  of  her 
children  were  born,  and  passed  the  delightful  hours  of  infan- 
cy. It  was  the  ancient  property  of  the  lioyle's,  the  birth 
place  of  these  two  representatives  of  the  family  :  its  ancient 
church  contained  the  tombs  of  their  remotest  ancestors,  and 
many  portraits  and  literary  relicks  of  them  still  remained  in 
the  library  and  gallery  which  belonged  to  it.  AH  these  consi- 
derations naturally  inspired  both  the  sisters  with  a  strong  desire 
of  fulfilling  the  conditions  of  their  grandmother's  will. 


320 

The  only  obstacle  to  this  voyage  was  Mary's  regard  to: 
Coulthurst,  for  the  grandmother  consented  to  accompany  her  to 
England.  To  take  Coulthurst  with  her  as  her  husband  was 
forbidden  by  the  terms  of  the  will,  which  directed  that  the 
property  of  either  should  expire   with  her  marriage  with  any 

but  a  Carrel,   and  in  such  case   the  whole  should  go  to  the 
other,  and  her  heirs. 

Arthur,  when  he  became  acquainted  with  his  brother's  wife, 
and  was  assured  that  the  sister  who  remained  behind,  was  her 
equal  in  mind  and  person,  easily  relinquished  his  aversion  to 
matrimony,  and  was  exceedingly  willing  to  fulfil  the  wishes 
of  his  family  in  maiTving  his  kinswoman  :  thus  there  was  a  new 
motive  for  Elizabeth's  desiring  her  sister's  presence,  a  motive 
which  operated  in  a    contrary  direction  with  respect  to  Mary. 

Elizabeth  was  informed  of  the  death  of  Sale,  nearly  at  the 
same  time  with  the  decease  of  her  grandmother.  This  event 
which  opened  a  way  for  Pvlary's  entrance  not  only  into  her  pa- 
trimony, but  into  her  father's  family,  added  new  ardour  to 
Elizabeth's  importunities  for  her  sister's  return. 

A  servant  of  Herbert  Orme,  was  commissioned  to  carry 
these  recalling  letters  into  America,  and  to  accompany  Mary  to 
Europe.  This  person  arrived  in  Philadelphia  in  November 
179y,  and  having  business  to  transact  in  the  southern  states  for 
his  master,  it  was  ordered  that  he  should  return  to  Philadelphia 
in  the  spring,  and  from  thence,  if  Mary  was  willing,  embark 
with  her  for  Europe.  She  had  thus  an  interval  of  four  or  five 
months  in  which  to  make  up  her  resolution. 

It  V.  as  at  first  agreed  between  Mary  and  Coulthurst  that  the 
former  should  return  to  her  sister  alone  ;  and  that,  after  having 
obtained  possession  of  Holwell,  she  should  endeavour  to  recon- 
cile her  family  to  her  marriage  with  Coulthurst,  and  having 
done  this  he  should  follow  her.  If  she  could  not  succeed  in 
this,  she  was  to  exert  her  liberty  as  a  free  agent  and  return  to 
America,  or  be  joined  by  him  in  England.  Her  present  little 
patrimony  was  sufficient  for  their  frugal  maintenance.  They 
afterwards  concluded  to  secure  themselves  against  the  possi- 
bility of  change,  by  the  ceremony  of  marriage,  which  was  se- 
cretly performed.  After  a  while  all  restraints  to  their  matri- 
monial intercouroc  were  laid  aside,  and  it  was  finally  determin- 


321 

ed  that  the  lady  should  go  to  England  alone,  and  that  her  subse- 
quent conduct  as  to  concealing  or  avowing  her  marriage,  and 
staying  or  returning  to  America,  should  be  made  to  depend  on 
circumstances. 

She  sailed  for  Liverpool  in  May  1800.  She  received  a  joy- 
ful welcome  from  her  sister  and  friends  in  England  in  July  fol- 
lowing. There  was  no  personal  circumstance  which  compelled 
her  to  avow  her  marriage,  and  her  sister  and  brother-in-law 
and  Arthur  himself  to  whom  the  marriage  was,  after  a  time, 
disclosed,  persuaded  her  to  conceal  it  from  the  rest  of  her 
famil)^ 

The  earl  of  Orme,  the  head  of  this  family,  was  now  in  his 
ninety-fifth  year.  Till  within  the  last  three  years  he  had  en- 
joyed extraordinaiy  health  and  strength,  but  at  that  period  the 
latter  began  rapidly  to  decline.  His  limbs  became  so  weak  as 
to  be  scarcely  able  to  support  him,  his  appetite  declined,  and 
every  thing  threatened  a  rapid  but  gradual  and  painless  decay 
of  nature.  His  mental  faculties,  however,  and  his  senses,  were 
unimpaired,  and  he  continued  in  the  enjoyment  of  every  intel- 
lectual exercise  as  formerly.  In  this  situation  he  devolved 
many  of  his  cares  upon  his  two  nephews,  on  whose  vigorous 
age  and  excellent  character  he  reflected  with  extreme  satisfac- 
tion. The  perpetuation  of  his  race  by  the  marriage  of  his  two 
nephews  with  his  two  nieces,  was  a  darling  project  with  him, 
and  the  only  one  that  remained  to  render  the  inevitable  hour 
pleasant  and  desirable. 

The  marriage  of  Herbert  with  Elizabeth  afforded  as  high 
pleasure  to  the  old  man  as  to  the  parties  themselves.  The  in- 
telligence that  Mary  was  engaged  to  a  native  of  America,  wa» 
a  source  of  the  deepest  vexation.  The  news  of  the  death  of 
her  husband  revived  all  his  hopes,  and  her  return  to  England 
was  solicited  by  a  letter  under  his  own  hand,  in  the  most  earn- 
est terms.  When  she  returned,  she  met  the  most  gracious  and 
paternal  reception  from  him,  and  all  her  family  loaded  her  with 
tokens  of  esteem  and  affection.  Arthur  speedily  laid  himself 
at  her  feet,  but  was,  of  course,  rejected.  The  cause  of  this  re- 
jection, though  deeply  regretted  by  him,  did  not  subdue  his 
generosity.  He  was  still  desirous  of  keeping  her  in  her  native 
country,  and  persuaded  her  to  make  her  marriage  a  secret  from 

41 


322 

his  mother  and  his  uticlc,  while  the  latter  lived,  and  till  the  for- 
mer could  be  gradually  reconciled  to  it.  These  were  her  mo- 
tives for  remaining  in  England,  and  deferring  her  husband's 
voyage  till  the  year  1804,  when  the  death  of  the  earl  removed 
the  impediment.  The  new  earl,  added  to  her  letters  his  own 
compliments  and  invitations,  and  Coulthurst  embarked  in 
August  1804  for  England.  He  had  a  long  voyage  ot  three 
months,  and  was  shipwrecked  on  the  southern  coast  of  Ireland. 
The  crew  and  passengers  escaped  only  with  their  lives,  and 
Coulthurst  found  his  way,  with  some  pecuniary  difficulties, 
from  Cork  to  Liverpool,  and  thence  to  London,  where  he  ar- 
rived on  the  10th  of  December  1804,  exactly  seven  years  and 
two  months  after  the  first  interview  of  Coulthurst  and  Mary  in 
179T. 


The  abbey  at  Holioke  has,  properly  speaking,  never  been 
dissolved.  When  Henry  VI I L  granted  it  to  the  earls  of 
Walney,  he  took  no  further  notice  of  it.  The  earl,  though 
he  followed  the  temporising  fashion,  then  prevalent,  was  a 
good  catholic  at  bottom,  and  enjoying  in  his  own  domain  very 
considerable  power,  he  suffered  the  abbey  to  continue  unim- 
paired. They  recruited  tlxeir  numbers  by  tuition,  and  continu- 
ed with  little  visible  change  in  their  condition,  till  the  opening 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  At  that  period,  the  number  of 
members  was  much  diminished,  and  the  spirit  and  zeal  of  those 
that  remained,  had  from  various  causes  greatly  declined.  It 
now  became  the  principal  family  mansion  of  the  lord,  when  he 
remained  at  Onne. 

At  the  breaking  out  of  the  civil  wars,  Edgar  Henry,  earl 
of  Orme  and  Walney,  sided  with  the  crown.  Orme  castle  un- 
derwent a  long  siege  from  the  parliamentary  forces,  and  was 
given  up  only  at  the  order  of  the  king  after  his  captivity.  The 
earl  who  commanded  in  the  fortress,  stipulated  for  favourable 
conditions  both  for  himself  and  his  estate  :  but  the  terms  of 
surrender  were  disregarded  by  the  victors.  The  earl  was 
carried  a  prisoner  to  London,  and  thrown  into  the  tower,  from 
which,  after  a  rigorous  confinement  of  eighteen  months,  he  ef- 
fected his  escape.  His  property  was  sequestered,  his  castle  was 
demolished    Avith    gunpowder;    the    abbey  was   burnt   to   the 


323 

ground ;  his  tenants  were  pillaged  without  mercy ;  subjected 
to  grievous  penalties  on  account  of  their  religion,  for  the  ma- 
jority were  catholics,  or  sent  into  exile.  Walney  which  vm- 
der  the  benign  auspices  of  its  lerds,  had  been  the  most  flour- 
ishing and  populous  district  of  England,  became,  during  the 
next  twenty  years,  a  scene  of  desolation  and  misery.  This 
uncommon  vengeance  had  been  provoked  by  the  formidable 
and  vexatious  opposition  which  the  republican  cause  had  al- 
ways encountered  from  the  earl.  No  English  nobleman  had 
made  greater  exertions  on  the  king's  behalf.  The  earl's  whole 
revenue  had  been  applied  to  the  equipment  and  maintenance 
of  troops,  which  he  headed  himself.  His  tenants  cheerfully 
resorted  to  his  standard,  and  almost  all  the  young  men  of  Orme 
and  Walney  had-  fallen  in  the  course  of  the  war.  The  Orme 
men  formed  a  separate  regiment,  whose  ardour,  perseverance 
and  courage,  v/ere  not  exceeded  by  any  of  their  compeers. 
In  the  course  of  five  or  six  campaigns,  a  body  of  a  thousand 
hiird}^  youths  v/ere  reduced  to  fifty  or  eighty.  Two  of  these 
effected  the  rescue  of  their  lord. 

The  earl's  offences  set  him  beyond  the  reach  of  republican 
mercj' ;  though  indeed  he  was  too  high  spirited  to  solicit  any 
favours  from  the  conquerors.  During  an  exile  of  twenty 
years,  he  suffered  many  evils  which  a  mind  less  inflexible 
might  without  difficulty  have  avoided.  He  spent  the  greatest 
part  of  this  interval  at  Venice,  disdaining  to  owe  his  subsist- 
ence to  any  thing  but  his  own   talents  and  industry. 

The  restoration  of  monarchy  was  the  signal  of  his  return  to 
his  native  country.  He  was  reinstated  in  all  his  honours  and 
estates  :  on  visiting  Orme,  he  beheld  nothing  but  desolation 
and  ruin.  The  two  great  monuments  of  the  glory  and  devo- 
tion of  his  ancestors,  were  level  with  the  ground.  The  earl 
was  particularly  distinguished  by  his  fervent  attachment  to  the 
religion  of  his  ancestors  ;  time  a  long  residence  in  Italy, 
where  nothing  but  the  hope  of  returning  one  day  to  his  native 
country,  prevented  him  from  becoming  a  monk. 

St.  Ulpha,  the  divinity  of  Orme,  was  of  course  the  object 
of  his  religious  veneration.  He  had  escaped  death,  amidst 
the  perils  of  war,  under  her  protection.  He  had  been  preserv- 
ed, during  his  exile,  from  the  extremity  of  suffering,  by  her 
intercession.     He  made  a  vow,  that  if  ever  he  were  restored 


324 

to  his  estate,  he  would  signalize  his  gratitude  by  establishing 
her  convent  and  her  temple.  This  was  a  favourite  subject  of 
his  meditations,  and  whether  it  arose  from  a  spirit  naturally 
sanguine,  or  from  his  better  knowledge  of  men  and  things,  he 
always  cherished  the  conviction,  that  he  should  one  day  re- 
turn. With  this  view  he  continually  ruminated  on  the  plan 
he  should  adopt,  in  erecting  and  reorganizing  his  abbe)-,  and 
came  back  to  England  at  the  restoration,  with  his  imagination 
replete  with  ideas  upon  this  subject.  He  brought  with  him 
Nicolas  Rosea,  an  ingenious  architect,  Marline,  a  sculptor 
of  great  merit,  and  Carlo  Rota  a  painter,  all  Venetians, 
young  men,  whom  he  had  apcidentally  discovered,  and  rescued 
from  poverty  and  neglect. 

In  visiting  his  estates,  he  found  a  treasure,  wholly  unex- 
pected in  possession  of  Saxby,  the  vicar  of  Bootle.  This  man 
had  obtained  permission  of  the  parliamentary  agents  to  take  away 
whatever  he  pleased  from  the  abbey  before  it  was  destroyed. 
He  was  at  heart  an  enemy  to  the  victorious  cause,  but  either 
his  policy  or  timidity  made  him  outwardly  compliant  with 
every  innovation.  This  conduct  insured  him  the  favour  and 
protection  of  the  government,  and  this  favour  he  industriously 
employed  for  the  benefit  of  the  absent  lord.  All  the  books 
and  papers  of  every  kind  he  conveyed  to  Bootle  cap^  an  an- 
cient building  near  his  village,  where  they  reposed  in  safety, 
till  the  earl's  return.  To  him  they  were  then  presented,  and 
constituted  the  most  valuable  treasure  which  it  was  possible 
for  him  to  receiv^e. 

The  only  claim  which  the  earl  made  upon  the  gratitude  of 
the  king,  was  a  full  and  parliamentary  confirmation  of  his  pa- 
ternal rights  in  Ornie  and  Walney.  This  claim,  with  some 
little  difficulty  was  complied  with,  and  the  lordships  of  Orme 
and  Walney  were  united  and  erected  into  a  county  palatine, 
by  the  name  of  Orme  Norwalk,  and  granted  to  the  earl  and 
his  heirs  general,  with  power  to  aleinate  by  testament,  but  not 
by  deed.  By  this  grant  confirmed  by  act  of  parliament,  the 
earl  possesses  all  regal  rights  and  privileges  within  these  lord- 
ships ;  justice  is  administered  by  him  and  his  agents  with  no 
appeal  but  to  the  king  and  council.  All  ecclesiastical,  civil  and 
fiscal  affairs,  arc  wholly  independent  of  those  of  Great  Britain. 


325 

No  taxes  are  levied  but  by  authority  of  the  lord.  The  peo- 
ple are  not  represented  in  the  British  parliament,  and  the  lord 
possesses  a  seat  in  the  house  of  peers,  by  virtue  only  of  his  ti- 
tle of  viscount  Sudleigh.  The  condition  of  these  extensive 
grants  was  merely  that  of  rebuilding  within  fifteen  years,  the 
fortress  called  Orme  castle,  and  keeping  constantly  within  it 
twenty  men,  able  to  bear  arms. 

This  was  the  condition  of  the  original  grant,  made  by  Rich- 
ard, in  consequence  of  which,  Arthur,  the  first  earl  of  the 
Carril  family,  erected  on  the  foundation  of  the  Norman  edi- 
fice, which  he  pulled  down,  one  of  the  noblest  military  struc- 
tiu'es  of  that  time  known  in  England.  After  flourishing  as 
the  mansion  of  the  family  for  nearly  three  centuries  and 
an  half,  it  was  totally  subverted  by  the  fury  of  civil  war  un- 
der Charles  I.  On  visiting  his  domain  in  1661,  the  earl  found 
nothing  but  a  melancholy  ruin.  The  building  had  been  redu- 
ced to  fragments,  by  the  force  of  gun  powder,  and  lay  confu- 
sedly scattered  on  the  surface.  A  natural  superstition  con- 
nected the  existence  and  prosperity  of  the  family  with  the  well 
being  of  this  fortress  in  a  kind  of  physical  sense.  The  terms 
of  the  former  and  recent  grants,  had  made  a  political  connec- 
tion between  them.  As  the  earl  made  the  re-erection  of  this 
edifice  a  favourite  point  with  him,  he  willingly  consented  to  a 
condition  which  would  bind  his  successors  as  strongly  by  po- 
litical, as  he  himself  was  bound  by  moral  considerations  to  sup- 
port this  edifice.  In  his  plan  therefore  the  solid  and  the  du- 
rable were  consulted,  and  to  these  qualities,  where  necessary, 
all  other  regards  were  made  subordinate.  Fifteen  years  were 
sufficient  to  execute  the  grandest  project  in  building,  with  the 
assistance  which  his  riches  and  authority  enabled  him  to 
obtain. 

Edgar,  in  his  youth,  had  spent  some  years  in  Italy,  and  had 
there  formed  intimate  connections  with  the  Roman  family  of 
Pamphili.  A  niece  of  this  family  had  contracted  a  passion 
for  this  Englishman,  which  might  have  terminated  in  marriage 
had  Edgai-'s  father  been  willing  to  deviate  from  the  family 
custom  of  allying  himself  with  his  own  name.  The  son  bowed 
to  paternal  authority,  and  gave  up  the  Italian  lady.  This 
sacrifice,  indeed,  was  made  not  only  to  filial  duty,  but  to  his 
patriotic  sensibility,  since,  the  countenance  of  the  lady's  fam 


326 

ly  was  to  be  obtained  only  by  adopting  Italy  for  his  country. 
He  married  his  cousin  of  Sudleigh,  as  his  father  directed,  and 
this  marriage  produced  three  sons  and  a  daughter.  There  was 
little  affection  between  husband  and  wife,  and  when  the  civil 
war  commenced,  her  family  siding  with  the  parliament,  and 
the  wife  preferring  the  politics  of  the  brother  to  those  of  the 
husband,  the  discord  between  them  became  violent.  He  suf- 
fered her  to  take  refuge  with  her  family,  but  sent  his  children 
into  France.  She  died  at  Sudleigh,  after  professing  prcsbyte- 
rianism,  in  1654.  His  Italian  mistress  never  lost  her  regard 
for  him  ;  she  continued  to  live  unmarried  for  his  sake,  and 
her  father,  of  whom  she  was  the  only  child,  made  new  over- 
tures to  him  on  the  death  of  his  wife.  These,  being  accom- 
panied with  the  old  conditions,  were  rejected,  notwithstanding 
the  little  hope  that  could,  at  that  time,  be  reasonably  entertain- 
ed, of  his  relation  to  his  native  countr}',  and  notwithstanding 
the  many  hardships  and  privations  to  which  his  exile  subject- 
ed him.  His  pride,  indeed,  was  such  that  he  obstinately  re- 
jected every  pecuniary  aid  which  the  generosity  of  the  Pam- 
phili  made  him.  All  these  obstacles,  however,  were  remov- 
ed by  the  death  of  the  old  count.  Henona  Pampliili,  now  freed 
from  all  restraint,  obeyed  her  own  inclinations,  and  gave  her- 
self and  her  estate  to  the  Englishman  without  conditions  in  1659. 
On  the  great  revolution  that  happened  the  year  after,  the  earl 
sold  his  wife's  property  to  her  uncle  for  100,000/.  sterling ;  a 
treasure  which  he  brouglit  entire  to  England,  and  which  he 
devoted  to  tlie  repairing  of  the  devastation  made  by  the  re- 
cent usurpation  in  Walney. 

There  are  four  ajiartments  next  the  roof  in  Orme  castle, 
12  feet  6  inches  in  diameter,  and  16  feet  8  inches  in  height,  of 
which  one  is  entirely  dark  and  inaccessible,  there  being  no  ave- 
nue connected  with  it,  either  for  light,  air,  or  human  footsteps. 
On  every  side,  around,  above  and  below,  it  is  enclosed  with 
solid  stone  not  less  than  three  feet  in  thickness.  This  apart- 
ment was  probably  constructed  rather  to  indulge  a  capricious 
fancy  than  for  any  reasonable  purpose.  Some  conjectures 
have  been  formed  concerning  it  by  various  members  of  the 
famil}-.  That  it  is  not  an  empty  room  has  been  inferred 
from   the  anxiety   displayed   by   the   earl  in   its  construction. 


o27 

He  was  present  when  the  last  stone  was  placed  over  it,  and 
went  in  alone,  before  this  was  done,  staying  there  some  time 
alone. 

Another  of  these  rooms  has  an  avenue,  the  only  one,  by 
which  It  has  a  long  and  intricate  communication  with  a  closet 
belonging  to  the  lord's  chamber. 

A  third  is  lighted  from  the  court  by  a  window  ;  and  is  ac- 
cessible by  a  narrow  stair  case. 

Ormesey  or  Ormsey  house  was  formerly  the  scite  of  an  abbey 
dedicated  to  St.  Ulpha,  and  occupied  by  nuns  who  were  gene- 
rally called  the  nuns  of  Ormsey.  This  nunnery  was  founded 
by  the  earl  of  Orme,  in  the  tenth  of  Henry  IV.  and  peopled  by 
a  colony  from  the  monastery  in  Walney.  At  the  dissolution  of 
religious  houses  it  came  into  possession  of  the  Caml's,  and 
continued  to  be  their  town  residence  till  the  usurpation  of  Crom- 
well. Earl  Edgar's  escape  from  the  tower,  when  under  sen- 
tence of  death,  occasioned  its  destruction,  for  the  mob,  impelled 
by  some  rumour  of  his  being  concealed  in  this  house,  attacked, 
rifled,  and  burnt  it  to  the  ground.  At  the  restoration,  the 
present  mansion  was  built  upon  the  ancient  foundations,  and 
continues  to  be  the  most  spacious,  solid,  and  magnificent  struc- 
ture for  private  use  in  the  metropolis.  In  every  prospect  of 
London,  it  forms  an  object  nearly  as  conspicuous  and  eminent 
as  St.  Paul's  and  Westminster  abbey.  It  is  equally  remark- 
able for  its  vastness  and  simplicity,  and  architecture  has  seldom 
produced  a  monument  more  calculated  for  duration. 

This  mansion  has  been  a  favourite  object  of  attention  with 
its  owners  for  a  century  and  an  half.  They  have  spared  no 
paius  nor  cost  in  improving  and  adorning  it,  and  its  present 
furniture  and  embellishments  are  the  accumulated  result  of  the 
care  and  wealth  of  successive  generations. 

Andrew  Pamphili,  count  of  Tarsi,  the  father  of  the  lady  who 
maiTied  earl  Edgar,  inherited  from  his  ancestors  and  left  to  his 
daughter,  a  precious  collection  of  sculptures,  paintings,  and 
medals.  Some  time  before  his  death  he  had  planned  the  build- 
ing of  a  palace  at  Rome,  and  had  provided  for  this  purpose 
great  quantities  of  marbles,  of  which  some  of  the  finest  kind 
were  found  al  his  own  estate  of  Tarsi.  This  plan  was  adopt- 
ed with  little  variation  bv  hi>^  son-in-law  for  his  own  house  of 


328 

Ormsey,  and  the  materials  thus  provided,  were  appropriated 
to  the  E  nglish,  instead  of  the  Italian  palace. 

The  count  of  Tarsi,  had  large  estates  both  in  the  Neapolitan 
and  Roman  territory.  The  former  he  sold,  as  before  said,  to 
his  kinsman,  and  the  latter  was  reserved,  by  contract  for  the 
younger  children  of  this  marriage  :  his  honours  and  estates  in 
England  being  the  property  of  his  children  by  his  first  wife. 
His  first  marriage  had  produced  three  children,  one  son  and 
two  daughters.  These,  early  severed  from  their  rebellious 
and  heretical  mother,  had  been  brought  up  in  Italy.  They  ac- 
companied their  father  to  England.  The  daughters  married 
suitably  to  their  rank.  At  forty  years  of  age,  the  son  allied 
himself  to  a  portionless  niece  of  his  mother-in-law,  and  died 
ten  years  afterwards  (1680)  leaving  an  infant  son.  His  widow 
buried  herself  at  St.  Ulpha,  and  left  her  child  to  the  care  of 
his  grandfather. 

Four  sons  of  Honoria  Pamphili,  lived  to  reach  manhood. 
The  eldest  became  count  of  Tarsi,  the  second  was  a  knight  of 
Malta,  and  passed  his  life  in  the  military  service  of  the  em- 
peror, in  which  he  attained  an  high  rank.  The  third  embraced 
religion,  and  died  bishop  of  Ostune.  The  fourth  married  a 
Sicilian  heiress,  and  passed  a  private  inoffensive  life  at  Pa- 
lermo. 

Earl  Edgar  buried  his  second  wife  in  1682.  He  himself 
expired  January  30  (the  anniversary  of  the  death  of  his  friend 
and  benefactor  Charles  I)  1700,  at  the  age  of  ninety,  more 
through  grief  at  the  disappearance  of  his  grandson,  the  hus- 
band of  Miss  Tenbrook,  than  any  other  cause. 

Sir  Gerard  Orme  of  Sudleigh,  whose  sister  married  earl 
Edgar,  who  had  abjured  the  catholic  religion  and  persuaded  his 
sister  to  do  the  same  ;  who  had  sowed  dissention  between  her 
and  her  husband,  and  encouraged  her  in  her  rebellion  to  his 
will ;  who  had  distinguished  himself  as  much  by  his  activity 
and  zeal  in  the  republican,  as  the  earl  had  in  the  royal  cause, 
was  excluded  from  the  amnesty  granted  at  the  restoration. 
The  king  had  resolved  on  his  attainder,  and  would  have 
granted  his  forfeited  estate  to  his  brother-in-law.  Sir  Gerard 
had  been  once  married,  but  his  wife  died,  and,  left  an  on- 
ly son,  whom  the  father  disowned,  because  he   declined   fol- 


329 

lowing  the  paternal  example  in  a  change  of  religion.  His  sis- 
ter's son  was  consequently  his  presumptive  heir,  and  the  king 
proposed  to  anticipate  the  course  of  nature  by  entailing  Sud- 
leigh  upon  him. 

The  earl  instead  of  profiting  by  this  favourable  disposition, 
prevailed  upon  the  king  to  pardon  Sir  Gerard,  and  restore  him 
to  his  property.  Sir  Gerard  though  a  violent  and  haughty 
spirit,  was  not  insensible  to  gratitude  and  compunction.  This 
treatment  converted  his  ancient  rancour  into  the  tenderest  ve- 
neration.    He  embraced  again  the  faith  of  his  early  years. 

Gerard  Orme,  the  son  of  Sir  Gerard,  being  disowned  and 
proscribed  by  his  father,  in  the  year  1648,  vvithdrew  to  the 
continent,  sharing  with  the  banished  earl,  his  poverty  and  pa- 
tience. Being  of  a  martial  and  enterprising  character,  he  en- 
tered the  naval  service  of  Venice,  iiis  father  being  disposed 
to  receive  him  again  with  kindness,  diligent  search  was  made 
after  him,  and  he  was  finally  discovered  in' the  habit  and  em- 
ployment of  a  captive  slave  at  Linope,  where  he  had  remain- 
ed unknown  and  hopeless,  for  six  years.  He  was  redeemed 
and  restored  to  his  country,  in  1664,  at  the  age  of  thirty-two. 
He  married  earl  Edgars  second  daughter,  and  left  behind  him 
in  1689,  an  only  daughter.  This  girl  and  her  cousin  were  in- 
tended for  each  other,  but  the  young  man,  as  we  have  seen 
married  ISIiss  Tcnbrook,  and  the  lady  chose  the  rector  of 
Sudleigh. 

The  life  of  earl  Edgar,  was  a  busy  and  eventful  drama,  till 
the  settlement  of  the  kingdom,  under  Charles  the  Second.  His 
high  rank  and  the  personal  favour  of  Charles  I,  might  have 
opened  the  way  to  honours  and  offices,  had  his  ambition  sought 
them.  But  though  a  member  of  the  council,  he  kept  himself 
pretty  much  aloof  from  the  projects  and  intrigues  of  the  court. 
His  exile  had  confirmed  him  in  this  resolution,  and  the  gene- 
ral rule  of  conduct,  for  the  remainder  of  his  life,  was  to  be 
as  neutral  and  inoffensive  as  possible  with  respect  to  the  af- 
fairs of  the  nation  at  large.  He  saw  that  his  peculiar  habits 
and  opinions  disabled  him  irom  being  of  any  service  to  his 
couptrvmen  in  general.  Ht-  therefore  willingly  devoted  all 
his  wishes  and  exertions  to  his  own  patrimony  :  he  fortified 
and  enlarged  his  claims  to  his  own  estates  by  the  amplest  royal 

42 


330 

and  parliamentary  grants,  and  thenceforth  studiously  demean- 
ed himself  as  one  who  was  a  stranger  in  England.  His  coun- 
sels when  he  could  not  avoid  giving  them,  were  always  fa- 
vourable to  the  religion  and  liberties  of  the  kingdom.  He  was 
regarded  with  great  veneration  by  James  the  Second,  but  he 
merely  employed  the  favour  he  enjoyed  with  that  monarch,  to 
dissuade  him  from  the  conduct  he  pursued,  and  which  ended 
in  his  ruin.  This  advice,  with  his  prudence  and  beneficence 
in  general,  insured  him  the  reverence  of  all  parties.  The 
prince  of  Orange  paid  him  gr^at  respect,  and  his  property  and 
honours  remained  unimpaired  by  the  revolution. 

The  chief  business  of  the  last  forty  years  of  his  life,  was  the 
superintendance  of  his  own  concerns  in  Rutland  and  Huntly. 
The  functions  of  prince  and  landlord  he  for  the  most  part  dis- 
charged in  his  own  person.  He  made  himself  thoroughly  ac- 
quainted with  the  condition  of  his  tenants,  and  his  govern- 
ment was  altogether  paternal. 

All  the  inhabitants  of  these  lordships  were,  previous  to  his 
time,  tenants  at  will.  Each  parish  had  a  steward  and  jurat 
appointed  by  the  lord,  and  holding  their  offices  at  his  plea- 
sure. These  decided  on  the  life,  liberty  and  property  of  the 
tenants,  without  any  limitation,  but  in  certain  cases  an  appeal 
to  the  lord.  The  earl  was  not  satisfied  with  making  a  judi- 
cious choice  of  officers,  and  maintaining  a  rigid  watch  upon 
their  conduct.  He  had  the  wisdom  to  impose  limitations  in 
his  own  power.  He  divided  his  land  into  portions,  more  * 
equal  than  formerly  ;  he  reduced  the  rent  to  a  somewhat  low- 
er sum  than  had  hitherto  been  given.  He  abolished  all  the 
contributions  in  kind,  and  all  the  personal  services  with  which 
they  had  hitherto  been  burthened.  He  granted  them  leases 
for  fifty  years,  clogged  with  no  conditions  but  such  as  were 
beneficial  to  themselves,  and  guarded  their  privileges  from 
abuse.  Their  leases  were  unassignable  without  the  consent  of 
the  lord.  The  tenant's  children  succeeded  him  at  his  death,  a 
choice  being  made  among  them  by  a  kind  of  jury  of  twelve 
neighbouring  farmers,  subject  to  the  decision  of  the  lord.  If 
he  died  childless,  his  successors  were  chosen  by  this  jury 
among  the  worthy  part  of  the  community.  The  tenant  forfeit- 
ed his  lease  by  conviction  for  certain  crimes ;  by  the  nonpay- 


331 

ment  of  rent  for  three  months   after  it   was  due,  and  by  the 
breach  of  some  other  conditions  of  the  grant. 

The  administration  of  justice,  was  carefullv  new  modelled. 
Instead  of  a  despotic  jurisdiction  in  the  jurat,  he  was  now  re- 
duced to  a  ministerial  officer ;  he  arrested  and  imprisoned 
culprits,  but  they  were  judged  by  a  bench  of  twelve  judges, 
annually  selected  from  the  tenants,  by  the  lord.  Their  deci- 
sion was  only  subject  to  an  appeal  to  the  lord. 

The  land  tenants  of  each  parish  were  bound  together  into 
one  community  by  new  and  powerful  ties.  Their  leases 
bound  them  to  deposit  their  names,  the  births  and  deaths  in 
their  families,  Avith  suitable  vouchers  in  the  jurat's  office.  The 
judges  and  the  candidates  for  vacant  farms  were  only  taken 
from  the  actual  tenants  and  their  sons.  The  rector  of  the  parish 
was  in  like  manner  to  be  born  within  the  precincts  of  the  coun- 
ty, and  descended  from  a  tenant. 

The  tythe  was  commuted  into  money,  was  received  with  the 
vent,  and  payable  by  the  steward.  Schools  and  teachers  were 
provided  for  the  instruction  of  the  people  ;  and  their  condition 
in  all  respects  was,  in  a  few  years,  greatly  improved. 

The  lordships  of  Huntly  and  Rutland  were  each  divided  into 
twenty  parishes,  whose  area  was  upon  an  average  6500  acres. 
Five  thousand  of  these  was  equally  divided  into  one  hundred 
farms.  The  rent  was  fixed  at  half  a  crown  an  acre,  for  the  en- 
suing fifty  years,  and  the  rector's  dues  at  ten  shillings  for  each 
farm.  The  whole  rent  of  each  amounted  only  to  twelve  thou- 
sand five  hundred  pounds.  The  salaries  of  the  steward  and 
jurat  were  each  sixty-two  pounds  ten  shillings  a  year.  The 
steward,  jurat,  and  vicar  had  each  an  house,  garden,  and  field 
for  a  cow,  rent  free. 

Each  parish  had  a  common  or  waste  of  about  fifteen  hundred 
acres,  which  the  earl,  from  a  naked  and  unprofitable  heath,  con- 
verted into  an  heavy  forest.  This  forest  w:ts  given  to  the  whole 
parish,  under  certain  conditions,  and  for  certain  uses.  The 
principal  use  was  to  supply  tenants  with  fuel  and  materials  for 
building  and  tools. 

About  thirty  thousand  acres  in  Huntly,  the  curate  retained 
in  his  own  hand.  '1  hey  principally  formed  the  park  and  gar- 
dens of  Hawkshead  and  Ulverstone. 


332 

The  earl  entertained  very  whimsical,  and  some  may  think, 
very  sublime  notions  of  property.  He  conceived  that  all  the  mo- 
ney received  from  his  English  estates  in  the  form  of  rent,  was 
held  by  him  merely  in  trust  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  paid 
it.  He  was  bound,  he  thought,  to  disburse  it  again  for  their  use. 
His  whole  revenue  therefore  was  expended  in  building  a  church, 
a  schoolhouse,  and  what  he  called  an  asvlum  in  each  parish,  in 
repairing  the  calamities  occasioned  among  his  tenants  by  fire, 
death,  or  other  accidents.  That  equality  of  conditions  so  desirable 
in  speculation,  but  in  practice  so  difficult,  belaboured  with  the  ut- 
most diligence  to  preserve,  not  only  preventing  any  from  rising 
above  a  certain  level,  but,  by  an  equitable  distribution  of  his 
income  among  the  needv  and  unfortunate,  to  prevent  as  much 
as  possible,  any  from  falling  below  that  salutary  level. 

Till  the  eldest  son  of  Honoria  Pamphili  was  of  age  he  receiv- 
ed the  revenues  of  Tarsi,  20,000  ducats,  or  5,000  pounds  a  year. 
About  four-fifths  of  this  were  regularly  remitted  to  England. 

The  father  of  earl  Edgar  possessed  the  manor  of  Lodewick, 
but  this  he  devised  to  his  second  son  Alfred.  Alfred  was  of 
a  temper  melancholy  and  austere.  He  shut  himself  in  this  re- 
treat, and  carefully  avoided  all  connection  with  the  world  and  its 
affairs.  He  amused  himself  in  his  chapel  and  his  library,  and 
died  in  1683,  at  eighty  years  of  age.  His  estate  devolved  to 
his  brother. 

Lodewick  is  a  wild  spot  in  Pembrokeshire.  It  is  a  consider- 
able demesne  of  10,000  acres,  which  the  earl  embellished  by  a 
mansion  of  considerable  magnitude.  It  is  very  remarkable  that 
Lodewick  is  inhabited  by  Saxons,  whose  language  is  totally 
distinct  from  that  of  all  their  neighbours.  It  is  a  vale  remark- 
ably secluded  among  hills  and  rocks,  and  which  is  scarcely  acces- 
sible except  by  one  craggy  road.  Edgar  visited  it  upon  his 
brother's  death,  and  introduced  many  alterations  and  improve- 
ments in  this  little  territory.  He  found  the  people  bound  in 
profound  ignorance,  but  hcniest,  laborious,  and  thrifty.  Their 
principal  support  was  sheep  and  cattle,  which  they  reared  among 
the  mountains,  and  si^ld  periodically  to  the  drover.  On  a  scan- 
ty harvest  of  oats,  togcthtr  with  cheese  and  milk  they  subsist- 
ed.    The  money  paid  for  tb.cir  cattle  and  sheep  enabled  them  to 


333 

pay  their  moderate  rent,  and  purchase  some  of  the  luxuries  and 
superfluities  of  life.  An  hundi-ed  and  fifty  acres  of  the  most 
fertile  land  was  cultivated  by  the  late  owner  for  the  subsistence 
of  his  family,  while  a  park,  hemmed  in  by  a  massy  wall,  and 
well  stocked  with  deer,  occupied  one  fourth  of  the  whole  territo- 
ry. An  ancient  fabric,  somewhat  in  the  castle  fashion,  scarcely 
afforded  shelter  to  civilized  men. 

The  interior  boundary  of  Lodewick  is  a  large  precipice, 
which  tends  in  a  circular  direction,  seldom  less  than  two  hun- 
dred feet  in  height.  In  one  spot  the  rock  slopes  so  as  to  afford 
access  by  a  winding  road  to  the  top.  From  the  summit  the 
ground  declines  inward  every  way  towards  the  centre,  where 
innumerable  rivulets  collect  into  a  small  lake  about  half  a  mile 
in  length  and  breadth.  As  the  height  of  this  lake  is  at  all  sea- 
sons uniform,  there  must  be  an  invisible  outlet  for  the  waters. 
How  this  upland  valley  became  inhabited  by  a  race  of  Saxons 
is  a  curious  problem,  which  local  traditions  pretend  to  solve  by 
relating  that  Edward  the  First  granted  this  valley  to  an  hermit 
of  Essex  who  led  hither  a  colony  from  some  part  of  England, 
and  founded  the  convent  whose  ruins  are  still  visible  on  the 
edge  of  the  lake.  This  monastery  subsisted  in  a  great  degree 
on  a  plan  which  prevented  all  manner  of  intercourse  with  the 
rest  of  mankind.  At  the  dissolution,  Henry  the  Eighth  pre- 
sented it  to  Maj'le,  a  Flemish  merchant,  in  payment  of  a  debt 
which' the  monarch  had  contracted.  He  brought  his  wealth 
along  with  him,  and  built  an  house,  with  all  suitable  appenda- 
ges, in  1545.  It  continued  in  his  family  till  the  attainder  of 
Nicholas  Mayle  for  the  conspiracy  called  the  gun-powder  plot, 
when  it  was  granted,  1602,  to  the  earls  of  Orme  and  Walney, 
and  made  an  inseparable  parcel  of  the  county  of  the  palatine 
of  Orme  Norwalk.  This  gift  was  sought  by  the  earl  at  the  in^ 
stigation  of  his  mother,  who,  tired  of  the  world,  was  anxious  to 
withdraw  from  it,  and  who  justly  thought  that  a  more  absolute 
seclusion  and  quiet  retreat  than  this  would  be  sought  for  in 
vain  in  Europe.  The  son  gave  it  to  her  for  life,  and  hither  she 
came  in  1610. 

Catharine,  daughter  of  Henry  VII,  was  born  in  1498.  At 
the  age  of  eleven  she  was  l)etrothed  to  the  prince  of  Portugal, 
'•nd  was  preparing  to  be  sent  to  that  kingdom,  when  her  father 


334 

died.  When  19  years  old  (1417)  she  was  married  to  Henr\ 
Carril,  earl  of  Rutland,  produced  two  sons  and  two  daughters, 
and  died  1558,  at  Wortlepool,  in  Gloucestershire,  a  manor  given 
to  her  brother  Henry  VIII.  She  died  eleven  years  after  her 
brother. 

Her  sons,  Edward  and  Felix  were  born  1518,  and  1520, 
and  her  daughters  Catharine  and  Mary  within  three  years  af- 
ter. Mary  married  the  prince  of  Altimura,  in  1544,  and  Ca- 
tharine married  Sir  Herbert  Carril  Ormc  of  Sudleigh.  Ed- 
ward married  Margaret  of  Florae  in  France,  in  1537.  Of  six 
sons  two  only,  Ambrose  and  Felix,  born  in  1539  and  1545, 
lived  to  reach  manhood.  Ambrose  married  his  cousin  Catha- 
rine of  Sudleigh,  the  only  child  of  her  mother,  in  1577. 

Catharine  Tudor  Carril,  countess  of  Orme,  was  born  in  1545. 
She  was  the  great  grand  daughter  of  Henry  VII.  Her  husband 
died  1602,  and  she  chose  to  withdraw,  after  a  busy  and  event- 
ful life,  to  the  solitudes  of  Lodewick.  She  was  thirteen  years 
old  at  the  accession  of  Elizabeth.  Till  19  she  resided  pretty 
much  at  court,  and  then  married  the  earl  of  Orme.  Their  re- 
ligion, their  proximity  to  the  crown,  their  interest  in  the  cause 
of  the  Catholics,  and  especiall}-  of  the  Scottish  Mary,  sub- 
jected them  to  innumerable  dangers  during  Elizabeth's  life. 

Her  eldest  son,  Arthur,  was  born  in  1566,  and  her  husband 
died  in  1602,  the  year  before  Elizabeth,  w^hen  she  was  fifty- 
seven  years  old.  She  lived  till  1646,  thirty-seven  years  at 
Wortlepool,  so  much  estranged  from  the  world  and  its  con- 
cerns that  she  knew  not  of  the  civil  war  and  contentions  between 
king  and  parliament.  She  left  Lodewick  to  her  grand-son  Al- 
fred, who  adopted  her  manner  of  life,  and  never  passed  the 
mountains.  By  carefully  abstaining  from  any  part  in  the  trou- 
bles of  the  time  he  remained  unmolested.  His  brother  paid 
him  a  visit  in  1661,  after  a  separation  of  twenty-five  years.  Al- 
fred died  in  1687,  at  the  age  of  seventy-six,  and  the  estate  of 
Lodewick  went  to  his  surviving  brother. 

Wortlepool  was  the  residence  of  the  countess  of  Florae,  the 
estate  which  the  daughter  of  Henry  VII ,  brought  into  the  fa- 
mily, and  which  the  voyage  of  JNIrs.  Coulthurst  was  necessary 
to  retain  in  the  familv.  It  is  a  parish  and  manor  in  Devonshire, 
of  seven  thousand  acres.     It  is   a  rich,  fertile  and  picturesque 


335 

domain,  adorned  by  a  noble  mansion,  built  for  his  sister,  by 
Henry  VIII,  and  preserved  in  a  very  perfect  state  till  the  pre- 
sent time.  Many  important  events  in  the  history  of  the  Ormes' 
have  occurred  at  this  place,  and  made  it  memorable.  The  halls 
and  chambers,  the  gardens  and  park  have  all  an  air  of  regal 
magnificence  and  grandeur. 

Ormesb)^  house  in  London,  Arthursley  in  Middlesex,  with 
its  small  demesne  of  eight  hundred  acres,  Wortlepool  and  Lo- 
dewick  are  all  part  and  parcel  of  the  county  palatine  of  Walney. 
Of  these  Wortlepool  is  the  only  portion  rendered  alienable  by 
the  original  grant. 

When  the  princess  Catharine  lost  her  husband  in  1537, 
she  returned  to  Wortlepool,  and  died  there.  It  afterwards 
was  successively  occupied  by  the  dowagers  or  unmarried  la- 
dies of  this  family.  It  became,  insensibly,  a  custom  for  the 
single  females,  especially  in  advanced  life,  to  make  this  man- 
sion their  asylum.  The  estate  with  its  inhabitants  was  ex- 
empted from  the  jurisdiction  of  the  king's  officers.  All 
authority,  civil,  criminal  and  fiscal,  was  exercised  by  the  stew- 
ards of  the  earl,  or,  what  usually  happened,  by  the  lady  tenant 
of  the  mansion.  The  welfare  and  happiness  of  the  tenants 
usually  depended  on  the  personal  character  of  these  ladies. 

The  estate  was  left  to  the  countess  of  Florae  by  the  will  of 
her  father,  and  hence  she  derived  the  power  of  bequeathing  it 
to  others. 

Wortlepool  castle  was  the  first  production  of  that  singular 
designer  Albright.  This  artist  was  found  by  the  earl  of  Rut- 
land in  an  obscure  lodging  at  Nurenberg  in  Germany,  of  which 
city  he  was  a  native.  His  poverty,  his  enthusiasm,  and  the 
ideal  symmetry  and  beauty  of  his  plans,  induced  the  earl  to 
bring  him  into  England.  Wortlepool  was  the  first  effort  of  his 
genius,  and  the  large  marriage  portion  given  to  the  countess  hy 
the  king,  was  expended  in  this  mansion.  He  was  subjected 
therefore  to  few  limitations  on  the  score  of  expense.  This 
liberality,  however,  was  displayed  more  on  the  quantity  of  ma- 
terials and  the  labour  expended  in  modelling  and  adjusting 
them,  than  in  the  extent  of  the  building  or  the  gorgeousness  of 
its  furniture. 


336 

Albright  built  at  Wortlcpool,  a  castle  with  all  its  oiEces 
and  ftpptndages,  and  a  church.  His  gratitude  to  the  carl,  who 
had  r<'scued  him  from  poverty,  and  had  enabled  him  to  marry 
the  o/oman  of  his  choice,  and  settled  on  him  a  pension  with- 
out conditions  of  any  sort,  induced  him  to  devote  his  invention 
and  industry  entirely  to  his  patron's  service.  He  was  anxious 
for  opportunities  to  exercise  his  skill  in  honour  of  the  Carril 
family,  and  never  worked  for  others,  whatever  rewards  were 
offered  him,  but  at  the  particular  request  of  his  patron. 

Everard  Albright  was  born  of  obscure  parents  in  the  ter- 
ritory of  Nurenburgh,  in  1497.  His  talents  for  painting  and 
sculpture,  showed  themselves  at  a  very  early  age,  and  obtained, 
for  him,  the  notice  and  protection  of  Araham  Rednitz,  a  pain- 
ter of  that  city.  This  person  he  accompanied  to  Flanders  and 
Italv,  and  pursued  with  great  industry  every  means  of  improv- 
ing himself  in  his  favourite  art. 

Rednitz  died  at  Bologna  of  the  plague,  and  left  his  pupil, 
as  yet  scarcely  twenty,  friendless  and  pennyless.  The  youth 
found  his  way  back  to  his  native  city,  with  great  difficulty. 
His  master  left  a  daughter,  a  woman  of  considerable  beauty 
and  merit,  of  whom  the  youth  became  enamoured  ;  but  her 
mother's  relations,  under  whose  care  she  was  placed,  and  who 
were  people  of  some  rank  and  property,  prohibited  their  inter- 
course. In  this  extremity  the  young  earl  of  Rutland  fell  in 
with  Albright,  relieved  his  distresses,  and  aided  him  in  carry- 
ing off  his  mistress  to  England.  The  earl  was,  at  that  time,  on 
his  way  to  Vienna,  with  his  father,  who  was  the  English  am- 
bassador to  the  emperor.  On  his  father's  death,  which  hap- 
pened in  Geimanv,  he  returned  to  England,  and  found  the 
painter  and  his  wife  securely  settled  at  his  house  in  London. 
From  that  time  1520,  till  his  death  in  1593,  at  the  age  of  se- 
venty-three, Albright  passed  his  whole  time,  till  incapacita- 
ted by  age  and  infirmii}-,  in  executing  works  in  painting,  sculp- 
ture and  architecture  on  his  patron's  account.  His  wife  brought 
him  several  children,  but  only  three  grandsons  survived  him, 
one  of  whom,  Caspar,  inherited  his  talents  for  painting. 
Caspar  was  born  in  1J66:  he  passed  his  life  like  his  grand- 
father, in  the  service  of  the  Carrils,  and  died,  aged  eighty-nine, 
in  1655.     He  left  no  posterity. 


•All  the  works  in  painting,  sculpture  and  architecture,  be- 
longing to  the  family,  and  executed  from  Henry  VIII,  to  the 
restoration,  were  done  by  these  two  artists  and  their  pupils. 
Their  exertigns  were  chiefly  confined  to  Ormsey,  Arthursake, 
St.  Ulpha's  castle,  abbey  and  church,  Wortlepool  castle  and 
church,  and  Lodewick  castle  and  church.  St.  Ulpha's  castle, 
Ormsey  and  Ai'thursake  which  they  improved  and  adorned, 
were  destroyed  with  all  their  furniture,  books  and  pictures  dur- 
ing the  civil  war.  The  buildings  at  Wortlepool  and  Lode- 
wick remained,  together  with  their  furniture  and  pictures, 
unimpaired  to  the  present  day,  except  by  time.  St.  Ul- 
pha's did  not  escape  injur}-,  but  was  less  defaced  by  the  zeal 
and  furv  of  the  times  than  might  have  been  expected. 

In  sculpture,  the  elder  Albright  was  equal  to  any  artist  of 
his  times.  In  painting,  his  exertions  were  chiefly  confined  to 
portraits.  Of  these,  there  are  still  preserved  one  hundred  and 
nine,  including  every  member  of  the  Carril  family  who  flour- 
ished from  1520  till  1580.  In  sculpture,  St.  Ulpha's,  Wortle- 
pool and  Lodewick  contain  innumerable  specimens  of  his  skill 
in  stone,  metal,  and  wood.  All  the  intricate  ornaments  which 
enrich  the  walls  of  these  edifices  were  designed,  and  most  of 
them  executed  by  him.  Many  busts,  statues  and  groupes 
representing  real  or  ideal  persons,  and  which  are  valued  as 
masterpieces  of  the  art,  are  still  to  be  seen  at  their  places. 
His  own  sepulchral  monument  in  the  church  at  Wortlepool 
was  among  his  last  performances. 

His  style  of  architecture,  in  particular  embellishments,  re- 
sembled that  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  but  in  the  plans  of 
his  building,  the  formation  and  distribution  of  its  greater  parts, 
his  style  was  altogether  peculiar  to  himself.  The  great  end 
which  he  seems  always  to  have  kept  in  view,  was  durability. 
In  pursuit  of  this  end  little  regard  was  paid  to  expense.  Wood 
and  every  other  combustible  or  frail  material  was  very  sparing- 
ly introduced.  He  dealt  almost  entirely  in  stone,  brass  and 
marble,  and  of  these  he  was  prodig;tl.  The  stone  employed 
was  modelled  into  masses;  the  largest  that  was  manageable,  was 
hewn  with  the  greatest  nicety,  and  bound  together  by  liga- 
ments of  iron. 

43 


338 

Worilepool  contains  within  a  square  of  175  feet,  a  consi- 
derable part  of  which  is  not  occupied  with  building,  upward  of 
twenty-four  rooms,  from  twenty-five  to  thirty-two  feet  in  di- 
ameter, and  from  forty  to  forty-five  feet  in  height.  It  also 
contains  forty-eight  rooms,  from  16  to  18  feet  in  diameter, 
and  from  twenty  to  twenty-four  feet  in  height :  above  72  con- 
siderable rooms  in  all,  besides  a  considerably  greater  number 
of  circular  closets,  from  four  to  six  feet  wide,  and  from  eight 
to  twelve  feet  high. 

Each  of  the  angular  towers  is  divided  into  three  stories  ; 
about  forty-eight  feet  in  height.  In  each  story  is  an  octagonal 
apartment,  thirty  feet  wide.  Qf  these  eight  sides  in  each  room, 
two  of  them  are  occupied  by  windows  five  feet  wide.  One  of 
them  is  the  door  of  entrance  from  the  centre  of  the  mansion. 
Three  of  them  have  doors  opening  into  passages  two  feet  six 
inches  wide,  and  eleven  feet  high,  which  lead  into  turrets, 
placed  at  these  angles  of  the  tower,  where  a  winding  staircase 
conducts  to  three  upper  circular  closets  five  feet  wide  and  ele- 
ven high!  Each  of  these  octagons,  therefore  are  connected, 
by  these  staircases,  with  twelve  spacious  closets.  The  whole 
number  of  such  closets,  therefore,  is  144. 

To  each  of  the  principal  rooms  in  the  body  of  the  building, 
there  are  connected  in  like  manner,  two  sets  of  closets  and 
staircases,  four  closets  in  each  set :  making  in  alU  eight  closets 
to  each  room,  and  96  in  the  whole. 

To  each  of  the  forty-eight  rooms,  of  the  third  rank,  there 
are  likewise  two  closets  of  similar  dimensions  annexed:  which 
makes,  when  added  together,  96.  So  that  the  whole  number  of 
such  closets  or  apartments  amounts  to  3^6. 

The  passage  leading  to  these  closets  is  from  2  to  2:J  feet  wide, 
by  11-j;  in  height.  Each  closet  has  a  nich  or  recess,  from  2  to 
2^  feet  in  width  and  depth  for  holding  a  cabinet  of  drawers  or 
shelves. 

The  height  of  the  body  of  the  building  is  128  feet :  of  the 
four  urcat  angul.tr  towers  144  feet,  and  of  the  twelve  small 
cylindrical  turrets  160  feet,  exclusive  of  domes  and  spires. 

There  arc  four  principal  staircases,  which  wind  round  an 
hollow  oval,  15  feet  wide  and  22 1  in  length.  This  oval  is 
lightened  by  an  oval  aperture  in  the  roof  10  feet  wide  and  17-^ 


339 

fe%t  long.  This  opening  is  protected  by  glass.  The  stair  is 
27  feet  wide,  whose  exterior  edge  is  supported  and  protect- 
ed by  open  iron  work,  consisting  of  slender  pillars  of  that 
metal. 

The  floors  and  ceilings  of  every  apartment,  closet,  passage 
and  staircase  in  this  building  is  of  fine  white  free  stone  ;  flat 
or  arched  wood  is  now  here  introduced  as  a  main  sujjport. 
Even  the  window  frames  are  of  brass  or  iron.  For  the  sake 
of  warmth  or  elegance,  a  stone  floor  or  wall  is  sometimes 
overlaid  with  a  wooden  one.  The  doors  too  are  generally, 
though  not  always,  of  timber.  In  some  cases  they  are  of 
iron  or  brass  or  bronze,  either  plain  or  gilt ;  of  these  metals 
the  architect  has   been   astonishingly  lavish. 

Tis  plain,  from  this  account,  that  this  mansion,  though 
none  of  its  apartments  are  very  large,  has  a  vast  number  of 
them,  and  is  qualified  to  accommodate  a  very  numerous  fami- 
ly. If  employed  as  a  convent  or  college,  there  are  fort)--eight 
rooms,  15  feet  in  diameter,  which  might  serve  conveniently  as 
dormitories  for,  at  least,  the  same  number  of  persons.  There 
are  twelve  rooms  which  might  serve  as  kitchens,  refectories, 
parlours  and  the  like,  and  twelve  more  which  might  serve  as 
libraries,  chapels,  auditories  and  rooms  of  state. 

As  a  private  dwelling,  the  lower  story  would  amply  accom- 
modate a  numerous  domestic  establishment  of  servants  and 
officers,  while  the  two  upper  would  supply  no  less  than  sixteen 
suits  of  apartments. 

The  house  has  been  chiefly  occupied  as  a  private  dwelling. 
The  princess  Catharine,  however,  intended  it  to  serve  the 
double  purpose  of  a  mansion  for  herself  and  a  convent  for 
nuns.  This  lady  conceived  ideas  of  religion  wholly  different 
from  those  generally  adopted.  She  made  a  convert  of  her  hus- 
band, and  had  this  house  constructed  after  a  model  peculiar  to 
herself  and  her  architect. 

The  chapel  is  ai  the  east  end.  The  interior  of  it  is  com- 
prized within  a  square  of  eighty  feet.  The  centre  of  it  is  form- 
ed by  a  vault  resting  on  four  clustered  pillars  placed  at  the  an- 
gles of  a  square  of  forty  feet.  The  sides  of  this  square  are, 
severally,  arcades,  twenty  feet  in  depth.  The  height  of  the 
lateral  arcades,  as  well  as  of  the  central  vault  is  eighty-five 
feet. 


340 

The  entrance  of  the  chapel  frpm  the  mansion,  is  on  the 
•western  side,  under  a  semicircular  gallery,  twenty-four  feet 
above  the  pavement,  twenty  feet  wide  and  ten  deep.  This  gal- 
lerv  is  supported  by  eight  brass  columns,  one  foot  in  diameter, 
and  forms  the  choir  of  the  chapel. 

On  the  eastern  side,  and  consequently  opposite  the  choir,  and 
sixtv  f'eet  distant  from  it,  is  a  niche  answering  in  shape  and  di- 
mensions that  which  contains  the  choir.  The  principal  altar  is 
placed  in  the  centre  of  this  niche.  It  is  a  cylindrical  pedestal 
sustaining  a  statue  of  the  full  size  of  St.  Rhoda,  to  whom  the 
church  ?s  dedicated.  The  statue  and  pedestal  are  of  the  finest 
porphyry.  The  latter  Is  adorned  with  designs  in  relief,  carved 
with  the  greatest  elegance,  in  eight  compartments,  representing 
the  chief  events  in  the  life  of  the  saint.  The  statue  was  mo- 
delled after  the  foundress  herself.  It  was  originally  placed  at 
St.  Ulpha's,  and  was  brought  hither  at  the  restoration,  to  sup- 
ply the  place  of  an  image  of  solid  silver,  originally  placed  here, 
but  which  fell  a  prey  to  republican  avarice  in  1646. 

The  altar  is  five  feet  in  diameter,  by  three  in  height.  It 
rests  upon  a  base  formed  of  three  steps,  of  white  marble. 

The  first  Catharine  became  a  widow  in  1547.  Her  husband 
excited  the  displeasure  of  the  king,  by  inadvertently  dissenting 
from  his  theological  opinions,  and  by  a  spirit  which  Henry  sus- 
pected might  prove  dangerous  to  his  successor.  Orders  were 
given  to  arrest  him,  and  in  resisting  these  orders,  the  earl  was 
slain.  The  countess,  with  her  son,  a  boy,  was  then  at  Wortle- 
pool,  and  there  she  continued,  in  a  sort  of  religious  seclusion  to 
her  death,  in  1568. 

Her  grand  daughter  Catharine  of  Sudleigh,  lost  her  mother 
in  her  infancy,  and  resided  till  nineteen  years  of  age  at  Wor- 
tlcpool.  One  of  the  last  acts  of  her  life  was  to  accomplish 
the  marriage  of  this  girl  with  her  grandson  the  earl  of 
Orme. 

This  Catharine  was  left  a  widow  in  1602,  44  years  old,  and 
spent  the  subsequent  years  at  Wortlepool.  Her  death  in  1650, 
was  chiefly  occasioned  by  that  of  Charles  I.  She  was  succeed- 
ed in  this  mansion  by  her  grandson  Alfred,  who  lived  here 
till  1687.  From  diis  time  till  1702,  it  was  left  to  domestics.  It 
then  became  the  dwelling  of  the  earl  who  married  Miss  Ten- 


341 

brook.  Here  the  family  of  his  first  and  second  wife,  chiefly  re- 
sided till  the  death  of  the  last  survivor  of  the  house  in  1755, 
when  the  runaway  countess  of  Florae,  acquired  possession  by 
her  father's  will,  and  here  he  resided  till  her  death  in  1799. 
The  twins  Mary  and  Elizabeth  were  born  here. 

The  apartments  of  this  house  have  been  usually  distributed  as 
follows :  the  whole  of  the  lower  story,  containing  an  hall  or  tho- 
roughfare, a  kitchen,  a  refectory,  a  steward's  room,  an  house- 
keeper's room,  an  office  for  judicial  business  with  the  tenants, 
another  for  pecuniary  business,  twelve  bed  (Chambers  for  domes- 
tics ;  the  vault  beneath  the  chapel,  used  for  the  celebration  of  fu- 
neral rites ;  all  that  die  within  these  walls,  being  buried  in  vaults 
beneath  these  two  rooms  for  preserving  implements  and  furni- 
ture used  in  interment ;  three  rooms  employed  as  sepulchres, 
one  where  the  inurned  bones  of  St.  Rhoda  repose,  a  second 
appropriated  to  the  foundress  of  this  house,  a  third  the  sepul- 
chre of  her  grand  daughter.  There  is  a  fourth  room,  accessi- 
ble by  a  secret  avenue,  immediately  beneath  the  great  altar, 
entirely  dark,  and  considered  as  a  sanctuary  claiming  the  great- 
est veneration. 

Catharine  Tudor  was  a  woman  of  great  learning,  fervent  pie- 
ty, and  warm  imagination.  She  adopted  certain  religious  tenets, 
in  consequence  of  certain  impressions  made  upon  her  fancy 
during  sleep.  The  figure  of  St.  Rhoda  appeared  to  her  in  a 
lively  dream,  assured  her  of  particular  protection,  in  return 
for  which  worship  and  submission  w.re  exacted  ;  directed  her 
to  build  a  temple  to  her  honour,  pointed  out  the  spot  where 
her  bones  were  deposited,  requiring  her  to  transport  them  to 
the  shrine  to  be  prepared  for  h^r,  and  communicated  the  lead- 
ing principles  of  true  religion  and  acceptable  worship. 

The  vision  was  repeated  with  no  material  variation,  for  se- 
ven nights,  and  the  feelings  and  convictions  of  Catharine 
were  rendered  uniform  and  permanent,  by  this  means. 

Catharine  had  plunged  deeply  into  the  theological  studies 
and  controversies  of  the  times.  Her  keen  and  rigorous  under- 
standing was  by  no  means  satisfied  with  the  evidence  and  argu- 
ments she  met  with.  She  sought  for  better  information  by 
prayer,  and  her  intense  devotion  and  ardent  longings  termina- 
ted in  what  she  deemed  the  special  revelation  already  men- 
tioned. 


342      - 

She  was  prevailed  upon  to  marry  the  earl  of  Orme,  on  the 
secret  condition  of  his  adopting  her  religious  sentiments,  and 
allowing  her  to  execute  the  directions  of  her  dream.  Albright 
was  immediately  employed  in  building  and  adorning  Wortle- 
pool.  The  bones  of  St.  Rhoda  were  taken  from  her  sepulchre 
at  Holioke,  and  placed  in  the  apartment  already  mentioned  : 
her  altar  and  statue  were  erected  in  pursuance  of  the  directions 
of  the  Saint  herself.  The  dark  sanctuary  above  mentioned, 
was  the  scene  of  an  actual  monthly  conference  between  this 
divinity  and  her  worshipper.  On  a  certain  night,  on  the  clock's 
striking  twelve,  the  lady  arose  from  her  bed,  and  proceeded 
alone  to  this  sanctuary,  where  she  held  according  to  her  own 
belief,  personal  and  waking  communion  with  her  patroness. 
The  interview  lasted  an  half  hour,  and  was  interruptedly  con- 
tinued during  the  whole  time  of  her  residence  here. 

As  soon  as  the  house  was  prepared  for  her  reception,  she 
made  it  her  permanent  abode.  Her  husband  was  at  liberty  to 
come. and  go,  but,  on  no  account,  would  she  leave  it  herself. 
She  formed  her  family  into  a  kind  of  convent,  whose  great  duty 
was  the  worship  of  Rhoda  according  to  forms  prescribed  by 
herself.  She  took  fifteen  companions  of  her  own  sex,  who 
made  a  vow  to  assist  and  obey  her  in  quality  of  matron 
abbess.  Her  discretion  and  seclusion  enabled  her  to  escape 
the  tyrannical  caprices  of  her  brother.  Edward,  Mary  and 
Elizabeth  suiFered  her  to  pursue  her  own  way.  She  recruited- 
her  family  from  her  immediate  tenants,  and  thereby  procured 
domestics  and  companions  exactly  to  her  own  taste.  She  was 
a  wise  and  beneficent  mistress,  and  was  ever  considered  by  hei" 
vassals  as  something  above  humanity.  They  adopted  the  re- 
ligion she  precribed  to  them,  and  their  posterity  adhere  to  it  at 
this  da)'. 

This  religion  left  abstract  doctrinal  sentiments  concerning 
Christ  and  God  to  the  choice  of  every  individual.  It  merely 
extended  to  modes  of  worship.  It  prescribed  a  general  reve- 
rence for  the  deity,  and  particular  gratitude  to  Jeslis  Christ, 
but,  v/jth  regard  to  these,  it. taught  that  no  stated  forms  of 
worship  were  due.  The  worship,  which  consists  of  particu- 
lar observances,  festivals,  prayers,  dresses  and  gestures  were 
deemed  entirely  superfluous  and  absurd  so  far  as  these  relate 


to  God  and  Christ.  The  sole  object  of  such  worship  was 
some  human  being,  already  translated  to  heaven,  and  exercis- 
mg  a  sort  of  delegated  and  vicarial  power  over  certain  indivi- 
duals. To  the  family  of  Carril,  and  to  the  vassals  of  that  fa- 
mily, living  within  the  precincts  of  Orme,  Ulpha,  Agnes  and 
Rhoda  were  the  proper  objects  of  worship.  With  regard  to 
herself  and  her  posterity,  and  to  the  inhabitants  of  Wortle- 
pool,  their  worship  was  exclusively  due  to  Rhoda,  whose  claim 
to  this  preference  was  founded  upon  actual  revelation.  She 
had  taken  this  place  and  these  persons  under  her  peculiar 
guardianship,  and  absolved  them  from  the  duty  of  worshipping 
any  other  deity. 

The  worship  she  exacted  was  the  recital  of  certain  verses, 
in  the  Latin  language,  before  her  image.  This  was  to  be  done 
at  the  meridian  of  every  day.  This  image  was  to  be  worn  in 
the  bosom,  and  displayed  in  the  house.  On  Sundays  and  at 
four  festivals  in  each  year,  all  who  were  able  were  to  attend  at 
church,  and  join  in  the  praises  and  prayers  there  addressed  to 
Rhoda ;  those  who  could  not  attend  were^to  recite  them  at 
home. 

The  breviary  of  this  worship  was   composed  by   Catharine 
herself.     It  consisted  of  hymns  in  Metrical  Latin,  and  set  to 
music  for  the  voice  and  the  organ.     Vocal  music  was  regular- 
ly taught  to  parishioners  who  were  qualified  to  learn.     A  choir 
was   selected  from  the  best  behaved   and  best  instructed   of 
these,   consisting  of  either  sex,  and   the    whole   of  religious 
worship  consisted  in  singing  their  hymns  at  prescribed  times 
and  places.     Conservators  of  the   church,  in  number  twelve  ' 
were  annually  elected  by  the  tenants,  and  approved  by  the  lady^ 
and  by  them  was  the  due  order  in  religious  matters  preserved. 
Marriage  was  celebrated  in  presence  of  the  tv/elve  conservators, 
and  the  whole   congregation,  on  the  fourth   Sunday,  monthly 
through  the  year ;    confession,   penance,  priesthood,  baptism, 
the  eucharist,  sermons,  crucifixes,  masses,  tapus,  and  incense, 
and  almost  all  that  distinguishes  the  Catholic  worship  were  un- 
known.    The  protestant  would  be  nearly  as  little  pleased  as 
the   Catholic,   since  the  divinity  addressed  was  once   a  mere 
mortal,  and  is  now  represented  by  a  carved  image. 


J44  , 

The  second  story  contains  a  room  for  convening  the  whole 
family  on  domestic  occasions  ;  two  refectories  for  principals ; 
four  grand  chambers  with  four  closets  to  each.  The  four 
closets  consist  of  a  lavatory,  a  wardrobe,  a  study  and  an  ora- 
tory. ^ 

In  the  third  story  are  also  four  chambers,  each  with  four 
closets  :  three  libraries  with  two  closets  annexed  to  each. 

The  second  and  third  story  are  likewise  occupied  by  the  cha- 
pel, which  is  eighty  feet  in  breadth  and  width.  The  four  an- 
gles of  the  chapel  are  rounded  into  towers  fifteen  feet  in 
diameter  and  one  hundred  and  sixty  in  height.  The  two 
easternmost  of  these  turrets  have  their  centres,  at  the  height  of 
fortv^  feet  hollowed  out  into  eight  small  circular  apartments 
five  feet  in  diameter  and  fifteen  high.  There  is  a  narrow  stair- 
case connected  with  each  tower  by  which  is  preserved  the  com- 
munication between  these  rooms.  One  of  these  staircases  is 
connected  with  a  passage  which  leads  through  the  solid  of  the 
chapel  wall,  to  the  chamber  of  the  abbess,  and  downward  to  the 
leuitissimus  already  described. 

At  the  expulsion  of  Arthur  Carril  from  the  Isle  in  loro, 
he  wandered  over  the  continent  as  far  as  Constantinople.  By 
signal  services  rendered  to  the  reigning  emperor,  the  recovery 
of  Rhodes  from  the  Saracens,  he  attained  a  grant  of  the  feu- 
dal sovereignty  of  that  island.  Under  him  and  his  four  im- 
mediate successors,  the  island  enjoyed  considerable  prosperity, 
but  the  death  of  the  fourth  Arthur  left  a  widowed  daughter 
and  an  infant  grandson  to  the  mercy  of  a  treacherous  minister. 
The  grandson  with  extreme  difficulty  escaped  the  snares  laid 
for  him,  and  joining  Richard  the  First  of  England  in  Palestine, 
finally  obtained  the  heiress  and  isle  of  Orme.  He  rescued  his 
mother  from  the  efibrts  of  his  enemy  in  Rhodes,  and  brought 
her  to  England.  She  became  abbess  of  St.  Ulpha's,  and  ac- 
quired, by  her  extraordinary  merits  and  sanctities,  the  title 
and  honours  of  a  saint.     Her  name  was  Rhoda. 

A  companion  of  Rhoda's  escape  was  Alexander  Alphus  ; 
this  person  brought  away  with  him  the  Archives  of  Rhodes, 
or  the  most  important  part  of  them.  From  these  he  afterwards 
compiled  an  history  of  Rhodes  under  the  Arthurs.  He  placed 
it  in  the  librarv  of  his  convent  in  the  year  1209.     It  was  che- 


S45 

rished  bv  the  montcs  with  the  greatest  care.  The  convent  was 
first  inhabited  by  Rhodian  exiles,  who  perpetuated  in  their  suc- 
cessors for  several  generations  the  use  of  the  Greek  language 
in  their  missals  and  religious  services.  It  became  extinct 
about  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century.  A  translation 
was  made  of  the  Rhodian  chronicle  into  Latin  in  the  year 
1278,  by  Edred,  then  abbot.  Edred,  in  his  poem,  relates  that 
ten  years  before  his  time  the  Rhodian  archives  were  destroyed 
by  a  fire  which  broke  out  in  the  convent,  and  that  the  chroni- 
cle of  Ulpha's  happened  to  escape  by  having  been  lent  the  day 
before  to  the  lord,  who  wanted  some  amusement  in  a  fit  of 
sickness.  Greek,  he  says,  being  almost  supplanted  by  the  La- 
tin in  his  convent,  he  thought  proper  to  translate  it,  that  the 
monks  might  consult  it  with  more  ease.  When  the  abbev  was 
taken  and  plundered  in  the  civil  wars  1640,  some  part  of  the 
library  was  preserved  in  the  manner  already  mentioned.  These 
relics  were  replaced  at  the  restoration  of  the  abbey  1665,  and  a 
catalogue  drawn  up  at  that  time  mentions  among  others  the 
Rhodian  chronicle  of  Ulpha's  in  Latin.  In  1723,  Simon  Tuild, 
dean  of  St.  Ulpha,  was  employed  to  examine  and  arrange  all 
the  monuments  extant  of  this  family,  and  to  compile  an  history 
of  the  house  of  Carril.  He  accordingly  thoroughly  examined 
libraries  and  Cabinets  :  arranged  and  printed  at  the  Palatine 
press,  all  the  records  discovered,  and  then  compiled  a  copious 
history  from  these  materials.  The  Rhodian  chronicle  is  con- 
tained in  this  collestion,  and  its  information  is  detailed  in  the 
history.  The  original  manuscript  is  still  preserved  ac  the  ab- 
bey. It  appears  to  be  a  copy  made  in  the  year  1480,  and  its 
accuracy  is  attested  by  the  signatures  of  several  members  of 
the  convent,  appointed  by  the  abbot  to  compare  it  with  the 
original. 

A  chronicle  still  extant,  of  the  same  age  with  the  last  and 
only  copy  of  the  "  Liber  Rhodeanus,"  relates  the  history  of 
the  convent,  which  the  historian  pretends  to  have  collected 
from  the  contents  of  the  conventical  libraiy  at  that  time.  Ac- 
cording to  liim,  the  first  apostle  of  the  island  was  St.  L^lpha, 
a  female  who  inherited  the  sovereignty  of  the  island  from  her 
father  Tutus.  Her  uncle,  instigated  by  ambition,  had  her  kid- 
napped and  sold  to  traders,  who  carried  her  a  captive  to  Rome, 

44 


346 

about  the  year  400.  She  there  became  the  slave  oi  a  Koman 
nobleman,  called  Marcus  Vitreus  :  but  her  wisdom  and  beau- 
ty soon  obtained  for  her  her  liberty,  and  made  her  the  nurse  of 
her  former  master.  The  death  of  her  husband  left  her  mistress 
of  great  wealth,  all  which  she  voluntarily  abandoned  for  the 
sake  of  raising  her  countrymen  of  Tutesell  from  the  barbarism 
and  infidelity  in  which  they  were  involved.  She  accordingly 
returned  to  the  island,  and  her  uncle  being  dead,  was  readily 
acknowledged  as  the  lawful  successor.  She  speedily  converted 
her  subjects  to  Christ,  and  died  in  this  abbey,  founded  by  her- 
self, in  454.  Her  descendants,  for  she  brought  a  son  with  her 
from  Rome,  governed  the  island  till  640,  when  the  Northum- 
brian Saxons  invaded  and  subdued  it.  The  conqueror  was  Ed- 
gar, a  pagan  Saxon,  who  was  converted  by  a  miracle  wrought 
on  the  shrine  of  Uipha,  and  sanctified  his  conquest  by  marry- 
ing the  heiress  of  the  native  princess.  The  island  henceforth 
became  Saxon,  and  continued  in  possession  of  the  descendants 
of  Edgar,  till  1070,  when  Geoifry  Martil,  count  of  Florae,  a 
companion  of  the  conqueror,  whose  posterity  held  it  till  1200, 
when  Arthur  Carril,  lineally  descended  from  Ulpha  and  Edgar, 
regained  possession  by  the  grant  of  Riqhard  I,  and  marriage  of 
he  heiress  of  Geoffi-y  Martil. 

The  historians  of  the  island  relate  that  Ulpha  was  the  mother 
of  a  line  of  ten  princes,  of  whom  the  great  Arthur  was  one. 
From  the  accession  of  Edgar  till  the  Norman  conquest  there 
reigned  twenty-one  kings  of  Tutesell.  Of  Rhodian  princes  there 
were  four  of  this  family;  and  from  1200  to  the  present  time 
there  have  been  thirty  carls  of  Orme  and  Walney. 

No  family  has  made  a  more  conspicuous  and  illustrious 
figure  in  British  annals  than  this.  The  heir  of  it  has,  on  seve- 
ral occasions,  been  allied  to  the  royal  family.  Their  rank  has 
always  been  considered  as  that  of  a  sovereign  house,  and  as  su- 
perior to  that  of  the  rest  of  the  nobility.  The  second  earl  of 
Orme  acquired  kingly  power,  and  maintained  it  for  several 
years,  under  Henry  III.  On  his  death,  and  the  banishment 
and  attainder  of  his  sons,  his  next  brother  succeeded  to  the 
island.  He  had  previously  been  abbot  of  St.  Ulpha's  and  bishop 
of  St.  Orme,  but  in  consequence  of  succeeding  to  the  earldom, 
was  secularized  and  obtained   a  dispensvition    to  marry.     The 


347 

wife  of  the  second  earl,  who  was  daughter  of  king  John  and  sis- 
ter to  Henry,  died  at  St.  Ulpha's  abbey  in  1296.  The  earl's  bo- 
dy Avas  delivered  to  his  brother,  and  buried  at  St.  Ulpha's. 

During  the  earl's  prosperity  there  were  none  of  the  nobles  so 
rich  as  he.  The  whole  county  of  Leicester  was  bestowed  upon 
him  by  king  Henry  III,  as  a  feudal  sovereignty.  Besides  this 
and  his  little  insular  kingdom,  he  possessed  two  castles  with 
land  around  them  in  different  parts  of  England.  All  these 
were  forfeited  at  his  death,  and  nothing  but  the  island  was  left 
to  his  brother. 

The  second  earl's  wife  being  the  eldest  daughter  of  king  John, 
and  himself  being  lineally  descended  from  Edgar  Atheling, 
by  the  marriage  of  Geoffry  Martil,  first  lord  of  Orme  under 
the  Normans,  with  Edgar's  only  child,  many  entertained  very 
favourable  sentiments  of  his  right  to  the  kingdom.  Having  ac- 
quired the  real  sovereignty,  he  willingly  forewent  the  name  of 
king.  The  Saxon  part  of  the  community  always  secretly  recog- 
nized his  title  :  the  Normans  were  of  course  averse  to  it :  but 
had  Henry  had  no  son,  or  had  his  son  been  of  a  different  cha- 
racter from  that  of  Edward  I,  there  is  little  doubt  of  his  success. 
This  was  the  true  source  of  his  popularity.  The  people  consi- 
dered him  as  martyrs  do  their  liberties,  and  their  veneration  in- 
creased in  spite  of  the  oppression  of  the  pope  and  clergy.  The 
worship  paid  to  him  could  only  be  checked  and  suppressed  by 
strenuous  efforts  of  the  govei-nmtnt ;  but  though  it  was  extin- 
guished in  England,  it  could  not  be  suppressed  in  Tutesell, 
where  his  name  was  ranked  as  a  divinity  with  Arthur,  Ulpha 
and  Rhoda. 

Anglesey  has  always  been  inhabited  by  a  race  whom  their 
peculiar  dialect,  manners  and  religion,  as  well  as  their  insular 
situation,  have  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  kingdom.  They 
have  never  been  conquered,  since  their  governors  always 
obtained  the  sanction  of  lawful  hereditary  right,  by  descent 
from  or  marriage  with  the  heirs  of  the  primitive  lords.  They 
have  ever  had  but  little  intercourse,  except  that  of  trade  with 
the  neighbouring  coasts.  For  a  thousand  years  have  they  been 
blended  into  one  mass  by  marriage  and  conversation,  and  there 
is  a  shape,  physiognomy  and  moral  character,  as  well  as  a  lan- 
guage   and  law,   by   which  they  are   obviously  distinguished 


348 

Irom  their    neighbours,  and    compacted   as   it  were   into  one 
body. 

In  ecclesiastical  as  well  as  civil  ofHcers,  the  isle  has  been 
independent  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  Neither  the  claims  of  the 
pope,  nor  ot  the  English  prelates  to  superiority,  have  ever  been 
quietly  acknowledged.  Unlucky  circumstances,  the  folly,  faci- 
lity or  superstition  of  the  lords  or  bishops,  have  on  some  occa- 
sions, yielded  to  papal  and  prelatical  encroachments,  but  these 
have,  prevailed  only  for  a  time.  Much  disturbance  and  confu- 
sion have  been  sometimes  excited  by  these  claims.  Papal  usur- 
pation was  finally  terminated  by  the  reformation  in  the  six- 
teenth centurv,  since  which  the  ecclesiastical  independence  of  the 
island  has  never  been  molested,  except  during  the  republican 
triumphs,  in  the  time  of  Charles  II. 

The  island  is  divided  into  thirty  rectories.  Some  of  these 
are  further  divided  into  subrectories.  This  has  been  the  case, 
where  the  village  Avhose  inhabitants  originally  composed  a  con- 
gregation of  the  due  size,  has  swelled  into  a  town,  and  requir- 
ed more  than  one  chapel. 

There  are  five  convents  of  men  and  five  of  women.  At  the 
head  of  these  is  the  abbey  of  St.  Ulpha,  the  head  or  abbot  of 
which  is  likewise  bishop  of  Orme.  This  abbey  is  also  a  college, 
in  which  every  rector  and  subrector  must  take  his  degree,  and 
be  qualified,  by  due  examination,  for  his  office. 

The  monks  and  canons  of  St.  Ulpha,  are,  in  number,  thirty. 
The  vacancies  in  this  body  are  supplied  by  their  own  election  : 
the  concurrence  of  tAventy  being  necessary  to  every  choice. 
The  candidates  must  be  natives  of  the  isle,  between  forty  and 
fifty  years  of  age  ;  must  have  passed  a  probation  of  fifteen  years 
in  their  college  ;  must  devote  themselves  to  celibacy,  and  never 
leave  the  isle  ;  may  lose  their  place  by  resignation,  provided  it 
be  unanimously  accepted  by  canons  and  bishops,  by  breach  of 
coiiventical  rules,  provided  the  sentence  be  in  like  manner 
unanimous.  They  choose,  twenty  concurring,  their  bishop,  or 
abbot,  who  appoints,  with  the  approbation  of  the  majority,  all 
the  rectors,  Irom  persons  under  forty  and  above  thirty,  natives, 
of  the  isle  jaiid  duly  qualified  by  an  education  of  ten  years 
;it  the  college,  and  a  degree.     No  canon  can  be  rector  or  sub- 


349 

rector,  but  the  latter  may  become  canons.  The  lord  has  a  nega- 
tive upon  the  choice  of  bishops,  canons  and  rectors. 

The  life  and  conduct  of  the  rectors  and  subrectors,  are  ame- 
nable to  synods,  consisting  of  rectors,  canons  and  bishops,  who 
meet  in  the  cathedral,  semi  annually.  These  likewise  form 
rules  and  orders  for  the  church. 

The  East  riding  of  York  wa.nts  little  of  being  an  Island. 
The  Derwent,  the  Humber  and  the  sea,  embrace  it  on  all 
sides.  The  former  takes  its  rise  within  a  few  miles  of  the  sea 
shore,  and  after  a  sinuous  course  of  about  80  miles,  joins  the 
Humber,  forming  its  present  boundary  on  the  North  and  West. 
It  formerly  included  a  tract  of  very  rich  land,  about  fifty  thou- 
sand acres,  called  Reeveland,  situated  between  the  Derwent 
and  Ouze,  and  near  their  confluence,  which  was  the  property 
by  marriage  of  the  Carrils.  The  late  earl  sold  the  whole  for 
twenty  pounds  an  acre.  It  was  a  level  piece  of  ground,  whose 
fertility  is  exceeded  by  no  district  in  the  kingdom.  At  the  res- 
toration it  was,  notwithstanding  its  value,  nearly  desolate,  but 
earl  Edgar  invited  improvers.,  by  granting  it  on  leases  of  sixty 
years,  at  the  inconsiderable  price  of  one  shilling  an  acre. 
A  few  public  spirited  farmers,  by  repairing  breaches  in  the 
embankment  of  the  Ouze,  by  which  the  whole  had  been  in- 
undated, and  bv  new  and  suitable  drains,  set  an  example  which 
many  others  followed.  By  this  means,  it  was  soon  converted 
into  a  most  productive  and  v:ilu:ible  body  of  meadow.  The 
leases  expiring  about  the  time  when  his  great  grandson  assum- 
ed the  management  of  his  father's  estate,  he  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity offered  of  selling  it.  The  tenants,  whose  ancestors  had 
grown  rich  upon  it,  eagerly  became  the  purchasers.  The  true 
annual  value  of  this  ground  did  not  fall  short  of  thirty  shil- 
lings an  acre,  so  that  the  price  he  set  upon  it,  twenty  pounds 
an  acre,  or  13|  years  purchase,  wa^  extremely  cheap  :  yet  it 
produced  a  million  sterling,  the  whole  paid  by  instalments  in 
ten  years. 

Of  this  immense  sum,  half  was  loaned  to  government,  and 
th6  produce,  25,000  per  ann.  was  employed  in  the  exclusive 
improvement  of  Anglesey.  The  lands  in  the  Isle,  in  the 
hands  of  others,  amounted  to  120  acres  ;  the  annual  value  of 


350 

which  was  about  26,  and  the  gross  value,  at  20  )earb  pur- 
chase, 200/.  300/.  therefore  was  sufficient  to  purchase  120 
acres.  The  interest  of  the  residue,  35,000  a  year,  was  em- 
ployed in  the  improvement  of  the  property  thus  acquired. 

The  isle  of  Jersey  was  originally  part  of  the  dutchy  of 
Normandy,  and  the  patrimony  of  Hugh  Martil,  the  companion 
of  the  conqueror.  It  remained  in  his  descendants  till  his  only 
daughter  and  heiress,  Isabella  de  Martil,  was  given  by  Henry 
the  Fifth  in  marriage  to  a  Carril,  in  1420,  The  new  proprie- 
tor confirmed  and  enlarged  the  privileges  of  its  inhabitants. 
They  have  immemorilaly  enjoyed  a  kind  of  republican  inde  ■ 
pendance,  the  right  of  being  governed  by  their  own  customs, 
administered  by  officers  elected  by  themselves.  One  jurat,  and 
five  subjurats,  the  first  of  whom  is  appointed  by  the  lord,  for 
life,  from  among  the  latter,  who  are  elected  by  the  people  of 
each  parish  every  five  years,  distribute  justice.  Each  parish 
has  a  priest  chosen  by  the  people,  and  some  other  officers. 

Till  the  present  century,  the  priest  derived  his  subsistence 
from  fees  due  on  baptisms,  marriages  and  burials,  and  from  a 
sort  of  tythe  on  the  oats  produced.  The  whole  value  was  ex- 
tremely small ;  from  about  fifteen  to  twenty  pounds  a  year. 

The  jurats  and  subjurats  profits  consisted  of  fines  imposed 
upon  certain  offences,  and  of  the  costs  in  civil  suits.  From 
these  the  former  was  able  to  extract  about  one  hundred  pounds 
a  year,  and  the  latter  about  thirty.  As  they  are  free  from  all 
national  taxes  and  customs,  commodities  arc  cheap,  and  provi- 
sions plentiful. 

The  ground  is  considered  as  the  lord's  property,  of  which 
twenty  thousand  acres  are  divided  into  five  hundred  farms 
(forty  acres  each)  of  the  residue  about  half  is  a  waste  or  com- 
mon, extending  over  the  cold  bleak  hills  in  the  middle  of  the 
isle  :  the  other  half  is  the  homestead  or  demesne  of  the  lord. 
The  farm  land  paid  a  rent  of  four  shillings  an  acre  ;  but  the 
tenant  holds  the  land  to  him  and  his  heirs  within  the  third  de- 
gree. The  non  payment  of  rent  for  a  year  after  it  is  due,  tlie 
failure  of  heirs  and  the  commission  of  certain  crimes  restores 
it.  The  lord  hcAvever  is  bound  immediately  to  confer  it 
on  the  same  terms,  on  some  native  of  the  parish.  All  males, 
not  engaged  in  agriculture  as  farmers,  betv/een  tweuty-five  and 


551 

fifty,  pay  to  the  lord  a  capitation  of  twenty  shillings  a  year. 
These  are  the  outlines  of  the  constitution  of  Jersey  at  the  ac- 
cession of  the  present  lord. 

The  whole  revenue  from  land  was  about  four  thousand 
pounds;  from  the  capitation  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 
The  latter  sum  paid  the  steward  and  his  officers,  and  the  for- 
mer was  regularly  remitted  to  London  in  bills  of  exchange. 

Till  1720,  this  isle  was  almost  totally  rejected  and  unvisited 
by  its  proprietors.  The  nomination  of  jurats  and  stewards  ; 
some  acts  of  supreme  legal  jurisdiction,  and  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  receipt  of  bills  were  generally  the  only  circumstan- 
ces in  which  the  character  and  power  of  the  landlord  was  dis- 
played. The  spirit  of  the  government  both  in  fiscal  and  judi- 
cial matters  depended  entirely  on  the  spirit  of  those  customs 
which  time  has  converted  into  laws,  and  on  the  character  and 
habits  of  the  officers. 

At  this  period  the  indefatigable  Arthur  visited  it  in  person : 
traversed  every  part  of  the  island,  conversed  with  individuals 
of  all  classes,  inspected  their  condition  with  his  own  eyes,  and 
obtained  from  the  priests  and  jurats,  accurate  and  full  amounts 
of  all  things  necessary  to  be  known.  After  thoroughly  digest- 
ing and  considering  these  particulars,  he  introduced  various  al- 
terations and  improvements.  His  measures  greatly  restrained 
the  manufacture  and  consumption  of  spirituous  lic|uors  :  intro- 
duced an  improved  agriculture  ;  abolished  all  fees  pavable  to 
the  clergy  and  the  jurats,  substituting  ample  stipends  in  their 
stead,  payable  from  his  own  coffers,  and  in  fine  secured  the  wel- 
fare of  the  people  by  many  wise  and  salutary  institutions.  To 
those  changes  to  which  his  own  legal  power  was  unequal  he 
obtained  the  popular  consent  by  collecting  the  clergy  and  chief 
people  of  the  island  into  a  kind  of  national  assembly.  A  whole 
year  was  passed  by  him  within  the  island,  engaged  assiduously 
in  these  arrangements ;  and  in  subsequent  years,  he  occasion- 
ally visited  it  in  order  to  inspect  the  operation  of  his  plans. 

The  island  has   extensive   quarries  of  salt;  and  of  white 
black   and   gray  marble,  of  a  grain  litde  inferior  to  the   best 
Italian.     It  has  likewise  excellent  coal  and  iron.     An  extensive 
manufactory  of  iron  was  established   by  which  the  island   was 
abundantly  supplied  with  that  article,  and  some  profitable  ma- 


352 

nufacture  of  hardware  adopted.  Tlic  marble  has  been  for  some 
centuries  in  use  in  the  edifices  constructed  by  this  family,  but 
earl  Arthur  created  a  demand  and  sale  for  it  to  an  extent  ex- 
tremely advantageous  to  the  island.  Contractors  for  these 
works  were  easily  found,  on  the  favourable  terms  allowed  them 
by  the  lord,  and  they  furnish  a  regular  subsistence  to  an  hun- 
dred families,  at  twenty  pounds  a  piece  ;  a  rent  to  the  landlord 
of  five  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  a  profit  to  the  undertakers 
of  one  thousand. 

The  trade  of  the  island  consists  in  salt,  coals,  bar  iron  and 
red  marble,  each  of  these  articles  is  raised,  and  sold  within  the 
island  or  exported  by  a  company  who  rent  the  several  pits, 
mines  and  quarries  of  the  lord.  The  whole  sum  paid  in  wages 
Is  about  four  thousand  pounds  a  year  to  two  hundred  persons. 
An  annual  profit  of  four  thousand  pounds  is  divided  by  twenty 
proprietors,  and  one  thousand  is  paid  in  rent.  Thus  the  lord's 
fix'e'l  revenue  became  five  thousand  pounds  a  year. 

The  area  of  Jersey  is  about  fifty  square  miles:  of  Guern- 
sey about  thirty  :  of  Alderney  five  :  of  Sark  four,  and  of 
Herrn  one.  With  each  of  the  four  last  there  is  one  or  two  isles 
connected,  containing  from  one  to  fifty  acres.  Tiiese  islands 
consist  of  three  principal  groups,  whose  relative  position  may  be 
considered  as  forming  the  points  of  a  triangle  whose  sides  are 
about  thirty  miles  long,  and  whose  base,  the  extremities  of 
which  are  AMerney  and  Jersey,  is  about  forty  miles  in  length. 

They  lie  in  the  gulf,  or  bay,  formed  by  the  coasts  of  Brittany 
and  Normandv.  Jersey  is  placed  in  the  midst  of  this  bay,  nearly 
at  an  equai  distance,  about  thirty  miles  from  its  bottom  and 
sides.  A-ldcrne)'  is  separated  from  the  French  coast  by  a  strait 
about  twelve  miles  wide.  It  is  somev.hat  surprising  that  these 
islands,  incorporated  as  it  were  i^y  their  position  with  France, 
should  have  been  politically  disunited  fron>  it  for  near  four  hun- 
dred years.  It  is  not  surprising,  however,  that  their  inhabi- 
tants should  retain  the  language  and  religion  of  the  neighbour- 
ing kingdom,  and  that  the}  should  not  form  an  integral  part  of 
the  British  empire. 

The  political  constitution  of  all  these  islands  is  nearly  the 
same.  The  land  is  held  at  an  Immutable  rent,  of  the  earls  of 
Rutland,  and  the  ci\il  and  criminal  jurisdiction  divided  between 


353 

(Officers  of  their  own  election,  and  of  his  appointment.  The 
area  of  these  islands  is  about  ninety  square  miles,  or  fiftv^-eight 
thousand  acres.  The  whole  population  is  about  ten  thousand 
persons. 

"  The  principal  edifices  in  these  islands  were  erected  by  Am- 
brose, earl  of  Rutland,  who  was  banished  hither  by  queen 
Elizabeth.  He  was  obliged  to  resign  all  his  English  estates  to 
his  son,  and  was  allowed  to  retain  this  portion  of  his  territory 
on  condition  of  his  never  setting  foot  in  Great  Britain.  He  re- 
tired hither,  accordingly,  in  1582,  and  his  restless  spirit  found 
sufficient  occupation  in  erecting  the  fortresses  which  now  remain 
on  the  principal  isles,  and  in  administering  the  government  in 
person  till  his  death,  twenty  years  after.  His  wife  refused  to 
follow  him  hither,  and  passed  the  remnant  of  her  days  at  Wort- 
lepool.  He  governed  his  vassals  with  justice,  not  untinctured 
with  severity  :  conducted  himself  as  one  wholly  independent  of 
England,  and  maintained  the  post  and  state  of  a  sovereign 
prince.  He  brought  with  him  a  considerable  treasure,  and  in- 
creased it  by  sending  vessels  to  trade  and  pillage  in  the  Indian 
and  American  seas.  His  presence  and  projects  produced  great 
effects  on  the  condition  of  the  islands  and  their  inhabitants. 

"  Though  upwards  of  sixty  years  of  age,  he  persuaded  Ca- 
tharine de  Brissac,  a  young  lady  of  high  birth,  to  elope  with 
him  from  Paris,  and  retire  with  him  to  this  island.  In  a  short 
time  she  brought  him  a  son  and  daughter,  and  repenting  her 
conduct,  endeavoured  to  escape  to  France.  The  discover)^  of 
her  purpose  exposed  her  to  the  resentment  and  jealousy  of  her 
seducer,  who  imprisoned  her  in  a  fortress  in  Sark,  from  the 
walls  of  which  she  threw  herself  in  despair,  and  was  dashed  in 
pieces. 

"  The  earl  ascribing  her  discontent  to  the  machinations  of  her 
family,  and  having  narrowly  escaped  assassination  by  one  of 
her  brothers,  gratified  his  vengeance  by  stealing  away  her  only 
remaining  sister,  and  killing  her  brother  who  endeavoured  to 
rescue  her  from  his  attempts.  The  lady  he  prevailed  upon  to 
live  contented  with  her  destiny,  and  even  to  become  enamoured 
of  him.  She  had  no  children,  and  died  of  a  fever  caught  in  an 
excursion  on  the  water  in  1592.     The  earl  sincerely  lamented 

45  * 


356 

her  death,  and  was  touched  with  such  remorse  for  past  miscon- 
duct that  he  thenceforth  became  as  remarkably  serious  and  de- 
vout as  he  had  previously  been  gay  and  insolent.  He  did  not 
intermit  his  attention  to  the  aifairs  of  his  estate,  but  he  sub- 
jected himself  to  certain  rigorous  penances  and  privations. 

"  Catharine  de  Brissac  had  been  three  months  a  prisoner, 
when  in  despair,  she  caused  her  own  death.  One  week  in 
every  year,  the  earl  condemned  himself  to  pass  in  the  tower  in 
which  she  had  been  confined,  without  attendants,  without  bed, 
and  almost  without  food.  Three  hours  each  day  in  this  week, 
he  passed  upon  his  knees,  in  tears  and  supplication,  in  a  small 
chapel  which  belonged  to  it.  He  thus  endeavoured  to  atone, 
not  only  for  the  wrongs  done  to  his  unfortunate  mistress,  but 
for  the  hypocrisy  and  irreligion  of  his  early  life.  He  wrote 
conciliatory  letters  to  the  countess,  and  obtained  her  forgive- 
ness for  offences  committed  against  her.  His  own  constitution 
was  unimpaired  by  the  irregularities,  hardships  and  excesses 
of  his  youth,  or  by  the  austerities  and  penances  to  which  he 
condemned  himself  in  old  age.  A  religious  melancholy  which 
preyed  upon  his  mind,,  gradually  infected  his  body,  and  he  died 
without  pain  or  struggle  in  his  eighty-second  year,  and  was 
buried  according  to  his  own  directions,  in  the  same  tomb  with 
the  two  ladies  he  had  seduced. 

"  His  natural  children  Francis  and  Catharine,  had  been  sent 
while  infants,  into  Italy,  A  kinswoman  of  their  mother  who 
lived  in  retirement  at  Florence,  consented  to  take  charge  of 
them.  An  evil  star  appeared  to  reign  with  uninterrupted  sway 
over  their  destiny.  The  guilty  circumstances  of  their  birth 
appeared  to  have  entailed  a  curse  upon  them  from  which  they 
never  covild  escape. 

"  Ambrose  Carril,  was  the  celebrated  favourite  of  Elizabeth. 
That  mystery  in  which  his  connections  with  that  queen  are  in- 
volved in  the  histories  of  the  times,  is  in  a  great  degree,  re- 
moved by  the  records  in  possession  of  this  family.  These  ac- 
quaint us  that  a  commerce  of  love  actually  subsisted  between 
the  queen  and  her  favourite. 

*'  The  estates  of  this  family  are  found  in  many  parts  of  Eng- 
land besides  Rutland  and  Huntley.     It  is  more  remarkable  of 


555 

them  than  of  any  other  family,  that  chance  or  discretion  has 
uniformly  augmented  their  estates  since  the  beginning.  The 
immense  personal  property  of  Tenbrook,  devolved  by  his  will 
on  the  eldest  of  his  grandsons,  and  was  entirely  devoted  by 
him  to  improving  Athelney. 

"  Arundel  in  Sussex,  Conway  in  Wales,  and  Berkley  in 
Gloucestershire,  are  all  surrounded  by  extensive  domains. 
The  facility  or  generosity  of  earl  Florace,  hoAvever,  prevented 
him  from  making  the  most  of  these  portions  of  his  property. 
He  let  them  out,  not  only  at  very  low  rents,  but  on  long  terms 
of  seventy -five  years.  He  had  no  avarice,  no  taste  for  the 
arduous  cares  either  of  a  steward  or  a  governor,  and  in  relation 
to  his  property,  generally  chose  that  mode  of  proceeding,  which 
gave  him  least  trouble,  and  required  least  thought.  His  su- 
perfluous revenue,  he  expended  in  building  the  sumptuous  cas- 
tles to  be  found  at  these  places,  in  adorning  them  with  all  the 
productions  of  the  arts,  and  in  converting  the  grounds  in  their 
immediate  vicinity  into  a  terrestrial  paradise.  The  ancient  and 
proper  patrimonial  possessions  of  his  family,  he  almost  whol- 
ly neglected  ;  visited  them  with  great  reluctance,  and  only  when 
absolutely  necessarv.  The  great  passion  of  his  life  attached 
him  to  these  three  places.  In  the  course  of  twenty  years,  he 
finished  the  extensive  gardens  and  magnificent  castles  belong- 
ing to  them,  at  the  expense  of  600,000  pounds. 

"  The  Berkley  estate  contained  eight  thousand  acres,  of 
which  three  thousand  five  hundred  were  included  in  the  park. 
The  Conway,  16,000  acres,  10,000  being  park.  Of  the  whole, 
13,500  were  in  the  hands  of  tenants,  and  produced  only  about 
30001.  a  year.  He  gave  up  all  the  rest  of  his  estate  to  his 
eldest  son,  when  only  eighteen  years  of  age,  in  some  degree 
entailing  to  that  son  the  future  fortunes  and  destiny  of  the 
rest  of  his  children.  He  reserved  to  himself  an  income  from 
the  fund  of  100  per  ann.  on  which  he  passed  the  rest  of  his 
life,  and  secured  the  aflftuence  and  comforts  of  the  family  of 
his  second  wife.  By  her  he  had  no  children.  This  income, 
together  with  the  three  manors  above  mentioned,  he  left  to  his 
widow  and  her  sisters,  with  the  remainder,  first  to  the  survivors 
and  survior  of  them  in  successioa,  and  then  to  his  three  daughs 


356 

tcrs,  one  of  them  to  each,  with  three  thousand  pounds  annual 
income,  from  his  estate  in  the  stocks. 

*«  Earl  Vincent  was  born  in  1678.  He  married  Miss  Ten- 
brook  in  1701.  His  wife  died  thirteen  years  afterwards  (1714.) 
The  next  year  he  married  Julia  Caloni,  who  left  him  a  widow- 
er (by  her)  childless,  in  1730.  He  himself  died  in  1743.  The 
last  of  the  Caloni  sisters  expired  at  Coaway,  seventy-seven 
years  old  (1772.) 

"  Till  this  period,  according  to  earl  Vincent's  will,  these  three 
manors  could  not  revert  to  the  Rutland  family.  When  lady 
Jane  eloped  from  her  husband,  and  came  pennyless  to  England, 
the  order  of  time  was  voluntarily  anticipated  by  the  Caloni 
ladies,  and  they  put  her  in  immediate  possession  of  Cleves,  and 
of  50,000/.  this  being  the  estate,  and  the  proportion  of  money, 
to  which  she  was  entitled  only  in  remainder,  after  the  close  of 
all  their  lives.  They  would  have  done  the  same  to  Mary, 
when  in  her  widowhood,  she  returned  to  settle  in  England,  but 
she  would  not  permit  it. 

*'  After  her  grandfather's  death,  earl  Vincent  resided  at  Ar- 
thursake,  till  Conway  was  habitable.  He  then  removed  his 
family  hither,  and  this  became  his  settled  and  principal  abode, 
and  that  of  his  widow  and  her  family  for  upward  of  sixty  years. 
After  the  death  of  Laura  Caloni,  in  1772,  it  devolved  to  Mary 
Carril.  She  never  visited  it,  but  took  care  that  the  domestics 
and  furniture  of  the  last  possessor,  should,  according  to  her 
last  wishes,  be  properly  taken  care  of.  The  house  and  grounds 
were  kept  in  perfect  order.  At  the  death  of  Mary  (1786)  k 
devolved  to  the  earl. 

"  Conway  castle  is  an  edifice  of  three  stories,  constructed  of 
massy  blocks  of  Jersey  marble,  and  rising  from  a  rocky  emi- 
nence to  the  height  of  130  feet,  exclusive  of  turrets  and  pinna- 
cles. Like  Cleves  and  Arundel,  it  is  planned  with  the  great- 
est art,  and  finished  in  a  style  which  shows  that  labour  and 
expense  were  wholly  disregarded  by  the  builder.  Beside  a  great 
display  of  the  excellencies  of  the  chissel  and  pencil,  of  which 
the  building  itself  has  afforded  the  immediate  occasion,  it  con- 
tains a  great  number  of  the  most  precious  monuments  of  an- 
cient and  foreign  art.     The  same  praise  may  indeed  be  cor.' 


00  i 

ferred  on  Cleves  and  Arundel,  but  not  quite  in  so  liberal  a  mea- 
sure as  on  Conway- 

"  Earl  Vincent  had  the  merit  and  pleasure  of  the  whole  plan 
and  contrivance  of  these  three  buildings.  They  afforded  occu- 
pation and  amusement  to  all  his  hours,  and  his  plans  were  of 
such  a  nature,  that  they  never  could  be  entirely  completed.  If 
we  could  overlook  the  pleasure  afforded  by  invention,  we  might 
reasonably  wonder  why  this  man  could  not  be  satisfied  with  the 
numerous  residences,  truly  royal,  which  he  already  possessed  in 
his  palatine  estates,  and  most  of  which  were  considerably  more 
extensive  than  these. 

"  Earl  Edgar  erected  and  endowed  three  colleges,  one  in 
Rutland,  one  in  Huntley,  and  one  at  Oxford.  The  two  former 
were  seminaries,  from  the  members  of  which  the  latter  was  sup- 
plied with  pupils  and  fellows.  The  district  or  lordship  of  Cleves 
in  Yorkshire,  he  bestowed  upon  the  hall  of  Oxford.  The  reve- 
nues of  this  district  for  ten  years  together,  he  employed  in  erect- 
ing and  finishing  the  edifice,  and  then  invested  the  fraternity 
with  the  fee  simple  of  the  land. 

"  Cleves  was  the  property  of  earl  Edgar's  mother.  It  was  a 
Boble  patrimony,  consisting  of  upwards  of  20,000  acres,  divided 
into  three  parishes.  He  regulated  this  district  in  the  same  man- 
ner with  Rutland  and  Orme,  dividing  it  into  lands  of  fifty 
farms,  granting  these  in  perpetuity  at  a  fixed  rent  of  ten  shil- 
lings an  acre,  and  securing  a  stipend  of  100/.  a  year  to  each 
rector.  The  revenue  hence  accruing  was  vested  in  the  war- 
den and  fellows  of  Cleves  hall. 

"  The  rules  of  this  college  were  drawn  up  and  carefully  di- 
gested by  the  earl  himself. 

"  Walter  Carril,  the  first  of  that  name,  earl  of  Orme,  married 
Philippa,  the  daughter  of  Arthur,  duke  of  Brittany,  in  1309. 
Arthur  was  succeeded  by  his  eldest  son,  John  the  third.  Wal- 
ter and  Philippa  left  a  son,  Walter  the  second,  bom  1310. 
The  count  of  Ponthieve,  younger  brother  of  John,  left  a 
daughter.  John  chose  for  his  successor,  the  daughter  of  his 
brother,  in  prefeience  to  the  son  of  his  sister,  and  married  her 
to  Charles  de  Blois.  After  John's  death,  a  cavil  ensued  be- 
tween  the  two   claimants   in    l.'^41,  whirh,  after  twenty  three 


358 

years  continuance,  ended  in  1364,  in  the  full  establishment  of 
Walter,  the  third  earl  of  Orme,  in  this  dutchy.  This  Wal- 
ter died  in  1380,  leaving  two  sons,  the  eldest  of  whom  his  will 
left  duke  of  Brittany,  while  the  youngest  Arthur  acquired  the 
English  estates  and  honours.  Henceforth  this  great  family 
was  divided  into  two  branches,  that  of  England  and  Brit- 
tany. 

"  The  Carrils  continued  in  possession  of  Brittany,  in  lineal 
male  descendants  for  seven  generations,  till  1491,  when  the 
marriage  of  Ann,  eldest  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  last  duke, 
with  Charles  VIII,  king  of  France  was  solemnized.  The  duke's 
younger  daughter  Isabella,  was  married  to  the  earl  of  Orme, 
in  1487,  and  thus  in  some  sort  re-united  the  two  branches. 

"  The  history  of  Brittany,  during  this  period  of  150  years, 
forms  a  part  of  the  history  of  the  Carril  family.  The  greatest 
harmony  subsisted  between  the  two  branches,  and  frequent  in- 
termarriages took  place  between  them.  In  more  than  one  in- 
stance, a  daughter  of  Brittany  became  countess  of  Orme,  and 
a  daughter  of  Orme  became  dutchess  of  Brittany.  Ann  the 
last  dutchess,  was  daughter  of  an  Orme,  and  Isabella  was  first 
cousin  to  her  husband.  This  connection  always  reflected  great 
lustre  and  credit  on  the  English  earls,  and  was,  on  many  occa- 
sions of  eminent  service  to  them.  In  every  disaster,  Brittany 
was  a  sure  place  of  refuge  to  them,  and  aid  and  mediation  were 
frequently  supplied  by  its  dukes. 

"  Brittany  was,  in  many  respects,  one  of  the  most  singular 
states  in  Christendom.  It  was  compact,  insulated  from  the 
neighbouring  provinces  by  many  peculiar  institutions,  as  well  as 
by  language.  Its  people  are  at  this  day  descendants  of  the 
aborigines  of  the  country,  and  may  be  said  to  have  never  been 
conquered.  In  the  wreck  of  the  Roman  Empire,  the  descen- 
dants of  its  ancient  chieftains  acquired  sovereignty  and  inde- 
pendence, and  their  posterity  continued  in  possession  of  it, 
amidst  all  the  shocks  and  revolutions  occasioned  by  the  Goths 
Franks  and  Normans,  till  the  fifteenth  century.  Geoffry  Mar- 
til  who  accompanied  the  conqueror,  and  was  first  earl  of  Orme 
and  Athelney,  was  a  younger  son  of  the  then  duke  of  Brit- 
tany. 


359 

In  the  following  pages  on  the  subject  of  the  Carrlls,  the 
author  has  altered  his  plan  in  several  particulars  from  the 
foregoing.  He  approaches  his  Utopian  land,  but  is  undeter- 
mined whether  it  shall  be  the  dutchy  of  Taranto  or  the  island 
of  Sardinia.  Those  sketches  must  all  be  considered  as  in- 
troductory to  his  favourite  prospect  of  a  perfect  system  of 
government. 

"  The  honours  of  this  family  are  denoted  by  their  titles  of 
duke  of  Bevern  and  Brittany,  marquis  of  Imside,  and  earl  of 
Jersey,  Athelney  and  Rhodes.  The  act  which  confers  these 
honours  ordains  that  the  four  last  shall  also  be  enjoyed  by 
the  four  elder  sons  in  succession  respectively.  In  other  cases, 
the  tides  enjoyed  by  the  children  of  peers  during  the  life  of 
their  fathers,  are  litde  more  than  nominal.  In  this  case  all 
the  privileges  and  immunities  of  peers,  accompany  the  pos- 
session of  the  above  tides,  as  soon  as  the  possessors  reach 
majority.  They  may  be  said  to  inherit  these  titles  from  their 
ancestor,  but  the  privileges  of  peers  they  hold  for  their  own 
lives  and  that  of  their  father,  duke  of  Bev.  and  Br.  With 
respect  to  property  they  are  wholly  dependant  on  their  father. 

<'  There  are  thirteen  mcorporated  towns  or  burroughs  in 
Bevernshire.  They  all  of  them  owe  their  existence  as  bodies 
politick  to  the  grants  of  their  ancient  dukes,  whose  charters, 
still  extant  and  valid,  form  the  oudine  of  their  respective  con- 
stitutions. Before  the  act  of  Henry  VIII.  they  formed,  to- 
gether with  the  duke,  the  bishop  of  Beverley,  his  twelve 
deans,  and  two  representatives  of  the  country  at  large,  a  sort 
of  independent,  provincial  parlianient,  by  which  almost  all  lo- 
cal and  legislative  functions  were  performed.  This  body  was 
dissolved  by  the  above  mentioned  act,  and  its  members,  ex- 
cept the  twelve  deans  of  Beverley,  were  declared  component 
parts  of  the  great  national  parliament.  The  bishop  sits  in  the 
house  of  peers,  in  the  same  character  with  other  bishops,  the 
two  representatives  of  each  borough,  and  the  two  knights  of 
the  shire,  are  members   of  the  house    of  commons. 

"  The  bishop  is  nominated  by  the  duke.  The  boroughs 
are  governed   each  by  twelve  elders,  who  are  chosen  octeu- 


360 

oially  by  themselves,  from  among  those  householders  who 
have  been,  for  a  year,  resident  within  their  jurisdiction,  and 
above  thirty  years  of  age,  provided  Ithe  choice  be  made  bv 
nine  out  of  the  twelve,  and  be  approved  by  the  lord.  They 
may  continue  themselves  in  office  no  longer  than  for  two 
terms.  By  these  elders  or  an  actual  majority  of  them  are 
chosen  representatives  in  parliament,  from  among  their  own 
members  or  from  any  other  class  or  district,  provided  their 
choice  is  approved  by  the  lord,  and  the  candidate  is  qualified 
in  the  manner  prescribed  by  act  of  parliament. 

"  The  knights  of  the  Shire  are  chosen  by  such  as  possess 
the  freehold  of  100  acres  of  land  within  the  same,  and 
must  also  be  approved  by  the  lord,  as  well  as  qualified  ac- 
cording to  the  statutes. 

"  It  is  evident,  that,  according  to  this  system,  the  lord  is 
invested  with  despotic  ppwer,  in  appointing  representatives. 
The  influence  exercised  by  individuals  over  counties  and  bur- 
roughs, is  generally  sinister,  precarious  and  indirect,  but  here 
it  is  direct,  absolute  and  constitutional.  Having  thus  the  ap- 
pointment of  no  less  than  twenty-eight,  or,  including  Rutland, 
of  30  members  of  the  house  of  commons,  the  duke  cannot 
fail  to  be  regarded  with  extraordinary  respect  by  the  king  and 
his  ministers.  His  parliamentary  influence  in  the  lower  house 
would,  in  many  of  the  contests  of  faction,  be  irrcsistable. 
Hence,  by  adverse  parties,  he  has  often  been  reverenced  as  one 
capable  of  determining  the  balance. 

*'  A  power,  thus  important  to  the  general  welfare,  aflbrds 
great  scope  for  the  exercise  of  wisdom  and  virtue.  The 
present  duke  has  shcv/n  the  excellence  of  his  principles  in  no- 
thing more  than  the  moderate  and  judicious  use  which  he  has 
made  of  this  influence.  He  has  not  been  guided,  either  by 
avarice  or  ambition,  he  has  not  meanly  condescended  to  be- 
come the  tool  of  any  minister  or  faction,  or  made  his  preroga- 
tives a  ladder  to  pensions,  offices  or  contracts,  either  for  him- 
self, his  dependants  or  his  flatterers.  He  has  chosen  the  path 
which,  to  his  unbiassed  judgment,  led  to  the  general  safety 
and  happiness,  and  to  the  attainment  of  that  goal,  has  direct- 
ed all  the  influence  which  his  riches,  power  and  authority 
have  given  him. 


361 

•'  I'he  Union  of  Bevern  with  the  kingdom  of  England  was 
an  event   somewhat  paralitl  to  that  of  Scotland  and  Ireland  in 
subsequent   ages.       It  would   be  a  theme    not  contemptible  in 
the  hands  of  an  enlightened  historian.       In  the  general  history 
of  Britain   it  forms  a  subordinate  episode,  highly  interesting 
Iroia  the    nature  of  the  circumstances  attending  it.     The  ca- 
pricious tyranny  of  Henr}-  the  Eighth   was  generally  submit- 
ted to   by   his    abject   people.       But    the '  inhabitants   of   this 
Dutchy,   containing  a  large    portion   of  catholics,   made   head 
against  his  innovations,  and   were  not   finally  subdued,  till  the 
whole  force   of  the  kingdom    was  brought  against  them,   and 
their  obstinacy    was  extinguished   by  the  death  or  banishment 
of  three  fourths  of  their  number. 

"The  duke  of  Bevern  was  a  compliant  courtier,  whose  real 
sentiments  were  favourable  to  the  reformation;  but  whose  ex- 
ternal  conduct  was  always  moulded  by  the  reigning  policy. 
His  next  brother  was  bishop  of  Beverley,  a  zealot  of  the  perse- 
cuted religion,  and  the  soul  of  this  rebellion  of  the  Bevernmen. 
By  him  was  the  standard  of  war  raised,  and  upheld  for  up- 
wards of  three  years  with  various  success,  against  the  whole 
power  of  the  crown. 

"  The  bishop  was  a  man  of  consummate  talents.  Historv 
does  not  supply  us  with  any  instance  of  a  more  absolute  power 
obtained  by  one  man  over  many,  than  this  leader  acquired  over 
his  devoted  followers.  Though  educated  in  the  cloister,  he ' 
took  the  field  against  the  enemy,  and  conducted  the  most  ar- 
duous military  operations,  with  a  skill  and  prudence  onlv  to 
be  expected  from  one  born  and  bred  in  camps. 

"  From  peculiar  circumstances,  this  district  was  one  of  the 
best  cultivated  and  best  peopled  in  the  kingdom.  It  abound- 
ed more  than  any  other  with  great  and  opulent  convents. 
The  bishop  had  many  privileges  and  an  extensive  jurisdiction. 
He  was  lineally  descended  from  Henry  the  Seventh,  and  the 
lustre  of  this  descent  added  greatly  to  his  influence.  This  in- 
fluence somewhat  justified  the  hatred  and  fear  with  which 
he  was  regarded  by  the  king,  who  naturally  confounded  his 
resistance  of  religious  edicts  with  a  contest  for  the  rrown 
itself. 

4(1    ^^ 


362 

"  Bevern,  coutaiued  at  that  time  about  80,000  inhabitants, 
of  whom  60,000  were  Romanists,  and  consequently  all  the 
latter  being  zealous  in  their  bishop's  cause,  they  could  furnish 
upwards  of  ten  thousand  soldiers.  This  number  was  armed, 
disciplined,  and  led  to  battle  by  the  enterprising  prelate,  and 
though  unable  to  make  any  effectual  opposition  to  their  ene- 
mies in  the  field,  yet,  by  the  obstinate  defence  of  strong  for- 
tresses ;  by  seasonable  movements  and  skilful  retreats  among 
hills  and  forests,  they  succeeded  in  maintaining  their  footing 
in  the  country  for  three  years.  They  were  then  entirely 
subdued,  and  immense  and  irreparable  havoc  was  made  among 
villages  and  farms  ;  more  than  forty  thousand  of  the  Roman- 
ists, including  their  wives  and  children,  were  destroyed  by 
the  sword  or  the  executioner ;  upwards  of  thirty  stately  mon- 
asteries were  levelled  with  the  ground  ;  a  score  of  ancienr 
and  celebrated  castles  shared  the  same  fate,  and  the  country- 
became  nearly  desolate.  The  remnant  of  voluntary  or  com- 
pulsory conformists  soon,  however,  bestirred  themselves,  and 
the  next  generation  was  able  very  nearly  to  repair  all  the 
evils  which  their  ancestors  had  suffered. 

*'  During  these  troubles,  the  Duke  of  Bevern  contrived 
with  great  difficulty  to  escape  the  anger  or  suspicion  of  the  ty- 
rant. The  bishop  had  equally  rejected  and  trampled  on  the 
rights  of  the  king  and  the  duke,  and  when  the  rebellion  was 
extinguished,  the  latter  was  reinstated  in  possession  of  his 
lands  and  his  prerogatives.  The  country,  however,  was  de- 
prived of  its  independence.  It  was  annexed  to  the  rest  of  the 
kingdom,  in  consequence  of  its  rebellion. 

"  This  contumacious  prelate  was  born  in  1520,  of  Catharine, 
daughter  of  Henry  the  Seventh.  He  was  made  bishop  of 
Beverley,  in  1541.  He  had  previously  received  all  the  advan- 
tages of  education  and  travel,  and  displayed  a  powerful  mind 
united  to  religious  zeal.  The  king  first  extended  his  innova- 
tions to  Athelney  in  1 544,  and  in  1545,  the  bishop  escaped  through 
numerous  perils  to  the  continent.  He  was  received  by  the  pope 
and  the  catholic  princes,  as  a  martyr  in  the  cause  of  the  true 
faith,  and  was  raised  to  the  dignity  of  cardinal,  nuncio,  and 
governor  of  a  Koaian  province.      On  the  deatli  of  Edward. 


363 

in  1553,  he  returned  to  England  and  was  made  primate,  but 
refusing  to  sanction  the  projects  of  Elizabeth,  he  again  re- 
tired, in  1558  to  Italy.  Two  years  after  he  was  elected  pope, 
at  the  age  of  forty,  and  occupied  the  pontifical  throne  thirty 
jears,  when  he  resigned  the  tiara,  and  retired  to  a  convent 
of  his  o^vn  founding. 

"  The  life  of  this  pontiff  forms  a  very  curious  and  interest- 
ing display  of  the  human  character,  and  of  the  spirit  and 
manners  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 

"  At  the  time  of  his  resignation,  he  was  still  in  the  flower 
of  his  age,  and  led  a  tranquil  life  in  the  bosom  of  his  chosen 
solitude  till  1611,  when  he  sunk  serenely  and  without  pain 
into  the  arms   of  death,   at  the  age  of  91  years. 

"  He  was  the  only  pope  who  had  ever  attained  the  tiara 
at  so  early  an  age,  who  enjoyed  it  so  long,  or  who  volunta- 
rily resigned  it.  His  conduct,  on  the  whole,  was  eminently 
distinguished  for  piety,  humanity  and  justice.  He  excelled 
all  his  predecessors  in  the  taste  and  magnificence  with  which 
he  cherished  learning  and  the  arts.  He  administered  justice 
with  impartialitv,  combining  rigour  and  clemency  in  that  due 
proportion  which  the  public  weal  requires.  He  abolished  or 
reformed  many  grievous  taxes  and  impositions  with  which  he 
found  the  Roman  state  burthened.  He  checked  the  fury  of 
the  inquisition,  and  behaved  with  so  much  mildness  and  for- 
bearance towards  the  protestant  princes  and  sects,  as  to  bring 
into  question  tlie  sincerity  of  his  own  faith,  with  those  who 
had  no  opportunity  of  viewing  his  conduct  closely.  In  his 
personal  deportment  he  was  a  model  of, devotion,  charity  and 
temperance. 

"  His  subjects  were  fully  sensible  of  their  happiness  under 
his  government,  and  repaid  his  beneficence  with  unlimited  de- 
votion. When  his  resolution  to  resign  the  throne  was  pub- 
lished, murmurs  and  lamentations  were,  every  where,  heard 
in  the  Roman  territory.  Even  foreign  nations  partook  of  the 
general  grief;  inspired  by  the  loss  of  a  pope,  whose  reigo, 
compared  with  that  of  any  of  his  predecessors  had  been  a 
golden  age  of  felicity.  His  wisdom  and  equity  bad  even 
gained  the  gratitude   and  veneration  of  the  protestant  sects, 


364 

and  they  cordially  united  with  the  catholics  in  their  regret 
for  the  past  and  their  terror  of  the  future. 

"  With  all  his  wisdom,  Felix  was  an  arrant  enthusiast. 
Whether  a  peculiar  constitution  of  nerves,  or  a  warm  imagi- 
nation was  the  source  of  his  reveries,  it  is  not  easy  to  deter- 
mine, but  the  sincerity  with  which  he  embraced  his  reveries 
and  phantoms,  as  celestial  revelations,  cannot  be  doubted. 
He  made  no  boasts  of  tlicse  favours  ;  he  built  upon  them  no 
claim  to  extraordinary  reverence  from  others.  They  seemed 
to  awaken  in  his  heart  no  passion  but  humilit)'  and  graiitude. 
They  directed  his  own  conduct  on  many  important  and  criti- 
cal junctures,  but  he  did  not  borrow  from  them  any  new  au- 
thority over  the  conduct  of  others.  He  disclosed  the  intima- 
tions he  received  from  this  divine  source  sometimes  to  ac- 
count for  and  justify  his  ov/n  personal  behaviour,  but  never 
with  a  view  to  enhance  his  power  or  his  sanctity  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world.  This  indeed  was  a  natural  consequence,  and 
his  person  became  sacred  exactly  in  proportion  as  his  conduct, 
on  this  head  was  unambitious  and  disinterested. 

"  The  being  Vvho  thus  performed  the  office  of  his  better 
angel  or  genius  was  no  other  than  St.  Ulpha,  the  reputed 
mother  of  Arthur,  and,  of  consequence,  the  lineal  and  direct 
ancestor  of  the  Carril  family.  St.  Ulpha  had  been  worship- 
ped time  out  of  mind,  at  Beverly.  According  to  an  ancient 
constitution,  no  one  could  rightfully  be  bishop  of  that  See 
but  one  of  her  descendants,  and  accordingly,  it  has,  even  to 
this  da)^,  been  always  filled  by  one  claiming  a  near  or  remote 
relationship  to  the  Carrils.  Felix  Avas  destined  for  this  of- 
fice from  his  birth,  but,  till  fifteen  years  of  age,  all  his  incli- 
nations leaned  towards  the  military  life.  This  preference 
he  maintained  with  great  obstinacy  against  the  wishes,  advice 
and  authority  of  all  his  relations,  and  renounced  it  only  in 
consequence  of  a  mysterious  interview,  by  night,  with  the 
Saint  herself,  who  condescended  to  impart  to  him,  personal- 
ly and  orallv  her  commands,  and  the  will  of  Heaven.  In 
pursuance  of  these  commands  he  abjured  all  his  military 
vivjv.s,  laid  aside  liis  customary  studies  and  levities,  and 
zealously  devoted   himself  to  the  service  of  God  and  St.  Ul- 


365 

pha.  He  made  rapid  progress  in  the  clerical  sciences,  and 
his  life  became  an  exemplary  pattern  of  humanity,  piety  and 
temperance. 

"-  According  to  his  own  report,  it  was  sometimes  in  his 
power,  by  certain  preparatory  offices  and  prayers,  the  nature 
of  which,  he  never  imparted  to  others,  to  obtain  the  presence 
and  direction  of  this  supernatural  guide.  On  all  important 
occasions,  lie  sought  and  obtained  an  interview,  and  fre- 
quently derived  from  her  the  power  of  deciding  on  the  merit 
of  adverse  arguments  on  questions  purely  speculative.  His 
clear  and  impartial  understanding  was  frequently  bewildered 
by  the  learned  and  skilful  disputants  of  the  age.  He  disdain- 
ed to  form  his  opinions,  as  others  commonly  formed  theirs, 
after  the  dictates  of  interest  or  education  or  example.  He 
lent  an  unbiassed  ear  to  the  advocates  of  the  rival  sects,  by 
which  Christendom  was  then  divided,  and  thus  acquired  a  sort 
of  neutral  or  wavering  conviction  on  religious  topics,  from 
which  he  was  extricated  only  by  the  special  revelations  of  St. 
Ulphii.  This  mode  of  settling  his  opinions  had  the  happiest 
influence  imaginable ;  since  it  excluded  all  doubt  from  his 
own  mind,  while,  at  the  same  time,  it  inspired  him  with  com- 
passion and  forbearance  towards  others,  whose  belief  did  not 
in  his  eyes  necessarily  argue  a  weak  head  or  a  bad  heart, 
and  who  dissented  from  him  merely  because  they  wanted  that 
supernatural  and  infallible  criterion  of  the  truth  which  was 
granted  to  his  prayers. 

"  He  attributed  his  acceptance  of  the  bishopric ;  his  des- 
perate opposition  to  the  innovations  of  Henry  VIII,  his  com- 
pliance with  IMary's  invitation  to  return  and  assume  the  pri- 
macy, his  declining  the  offers  of  her  successor,  his  retirement 
in  It:ily,  his  acceptance,  and  finally  his  resignation  of  the  pope- 
dom to  the  special   commands  of  St.  Ulpha. 

"  One  exception  has  been  discovered  to  the  general  in- 
tegrity of  his  life,  which  deserves  particular  mention,  because 
it  is  a  curious  example  of  the  influence  of  this  peculiar  su- 
perstition on  his  mind.  While  a  student  at  Fadua,  he  form- 
ed a  close  intimacy  with  Giulio  Terzi,  the  only  son  of  the 
prince  of  Altamura.      Time   only  added  strength  and  tender- 


566 

ness  to  their  mutual  attachment,  and  their  friendship  was  at- 
tested by  a  most  voluminous  and  confidential  correspondence 
carried  on  during  every  interval  of  separation.  They  wrote 
and  conversed  in  no  language  but  Latin,  in  their  knowledge 
of  which  they  were  excelled  by  none  of  their  contemporaries. 
Their  correspondence  was  carried  on  in  a  mystic  character* 
intelligible  only  to  themselves. 

"  There  was  no  third  person  in  their  friendship  till  1545, 
when  the  bishop  paid  a  visit  to  his  friend,  who  had  some 
years  before,  succeeded  his  father  in  his  lordship  of  Alta- 
mura.  Here  he  found  Giulio  living  in  the  deepest  seclusion 
with  his  only  sister  Giulia,  a  woman  at  that  time  about  seven- 
teen years  old.  As  the  bishop  was  still  young,  and  equally 
noble  and  graceful  in  his  person  and  address,  the  lady's  heart 
was  soon  biassed  in  his  favour ;  as  the  lady  added  a  most  cul- 
tivated and  polished  mind  to  the  most  exquisite  charms  of 
person,  and  the  most  bewitching  simplicity  of  manners,  the 
visitant  could  scarcely  fail,  in  spite  of  all  his  abstemious 
maxims  and  habits,  to  feel  something  more  than  a  mere  ami- 
cable sentiment  towards  her. 

"  Previous  to  this  visit,  he  had  scarcely  ever  passed  a 
minute  in  the  company  of  any  female.  This  partly  arose  from 
an  early  bashfulness,  made  inveterate  by  habit,  which  made 
the  presence  of  women  painful  and  distressing  to  him,  and 
partly  from  his  multiplied  religious  and  military  duties ; 
which  left  him  no  leisure  for  amusement.  He  desired  to  es- 
cape any  introduction  to  the  lady  of  the  mansion,  on  the  pre- 
sent occasion,  and  his  friend  was  willing  enough  to  gratify 
him  in  this  particular.  '  All  his  precautions,  however,  could 
not  prevent  him  from  meeting  her,  one  morning,  in  a  temple 
in  the  garden,  which  the  prince  had  erected,  in  honour  of 
St.  Ulpha,  the  favourite  divinity  of  his  friend.  The  bishop 
chanced  to  repair  thither  at  an  hour  much  earlier  than  was 
customary,  when  he  caught  a  view  of  the  lady  kneeling  at  the 
altar.  She  glided  away  at  his  approach,  but  not  till  he  had 
obtained  a  distinct  view  of  her  face  and  person.  His  fancy, 
irresistably  struck  by  her  appearance,  cherished,  for  a  mo- 
ment, the  persuasion  that  the  phantom    was  St.  Ulpha  her- 


367 

self,"  and  when  undeceived  in  that  particular,  he  made  no 
longer  any  scruple  to  see  and  converse  with  her.  They  soon 
became  familiar,  and  such  was  the  bishop's  visionary  temper, 
that  he  finally  prevailed  upon  himself  to  believe  that  Ulpha 
herself  had  condescended  to  animate  the  form  of  Giulia,  and 
that  to  love  her  persouj  to  revere  her  understanding,  to  fol- 
low her  councils,  and  to  maintain  a  conjugal  intimacy  with 
her  were  the  express  injunctions  of  his  duty.  He  could  not 
find  it  difficult  to  remove  her  Scruples  as  easily  as  he  had  done 
his  own.  What  is  somewhat  surprising,  the  brother  was 
wrought  upon  so  far^  by  friendship  or  by  reasoning,  as  to  sanc- 
tion their  alliance.  Their  connection  produced  no  children, 
and  they  continued  in  the  closest  union  for  twenty-one  years, 
when  the  lady  died  suddenly  on  coming  out  of  the  bath,  be- 
ing previously  in  perfect  health.  She  bequeathed  her  estate^ 
which  she  had  inherited  from  her  brother,  eight  years  before, 
to  the  pope,  and  this  estate  was  all  the  landed  property  which 
Felix  acquired,  directly  or  indirectly,  through  his  long  pon- 
tificate. 

''  The  domain  of  Altamura  extended  over  some  Romantic 
hills  and  fertile  vallies  in  the  heart  of  Apulia.  It  was  nearly 
equal  in  extent  to  that  district  in  Bevernshire  which  is  called 
"  the  Patrimony  of  St.  Ulpha,"  and  still  belonging  to  the 
bishops,  the  protestant  successors  of  Felix.  This  similiarity, 
together  with  the  circumstance  of  being  the  birth-place  and 
residence  of  one  whom  he  seriously  regarded  as  a  second  ap- 
pearance of  the  same  beatified  being  in  an  human  form,  com- 
mended it  strongly  to  his  affections,  and  he  speedily  conceiv- 
ed the  design  of  building  a  convent  to  her  honour  on  this  spot, 
endowing  it  with  this  whole  estate,  and  taking  refuge  in  its 
shades,  at  the  arrival  of  that  period  at  which  he  had  previous- 
ly resolved  to  resign  the  pontifical  throne.  This  period  was 
the  seventieth  year  of  his  age,  when  he  would  have  enjoyed 
the  papacy,  thirty  years,  a  longer  reign  than  had  happened  to 
any  of  liis  pi'edecessors. 

"  Felix  had  formed  a  solemii  resolution  never  to  convert 
any  part  of  the  public  revenue  to  his  own  personal  use,  or  that 
of  any  of  his  relations,  as  such.     Every    Englishm.an  he   re- 


36t> 

garded  as  a  brother,  and  those  of  his  countrymen  who  were 
condemned  to  exile  and  poverty  on  account  of  religion  he  held 
it  a  duty  to  protect  and  relieve,  but  he  placed  their  merit  on 
the  same  footing  with  that  of  their  fellow  sufferers  of  any 
other  nation^  and  though  he  bestowed  his  bounty  on  theni 
with  more  pleasure,  he  did  not  bestow  it  more  promptly  or 
largely.  Among  the  exiles  from  England,  there  were  several 
near  akin  to  him.  These,  however  unworthy,  he  rescued 
from  poverty,  but  he  allowed  them  no  extraordinary  favour 
or  distinction  unless  their  virtues,  as  well  as  the  ties  of  blood, 
pleaded  for  them.  During  the  first  fifteen  years  of  his  ponti- 
ficate, he  was  allowed  by  all  to  have  behaved,  in  this  respect, 
with  decency  and  moderation,  but  less  merit  was  ascribed  to 
this  forbearance  because  none  of  his  near  kinsman  had  ap- 
peared at  Rome  in  that  time.  His  virtue  was  not  fully 
tried  till  the  year  1570,  when  Felix  Carril,  his  nephev/,  the 
only  brother  of  the  duke  of  Bevern,  the  great  favourite  of 
Elizabeth,  became  a  convert  to  the  catholic  faith,  and  took  re- 
iuge  in  Italy. 

"  Felix  was  more  than  six  years  younger  than  his  brother, 
and  joined  therefore  the  graces  of  youth,  to  a  spirit  as  rest- 
less, enterprising  and  ambitious  as  the  duke's.  He  was  hand 
some,  intrepid,  generous,  artful  and  insinuating,  and  had  aim- 
ed at  nothing  less  than  to  supplant  his  brother  in  the  queen's 
favour.  In  this  contest,  however,  he  w^as  worsted  by  the 
superior  address  of  his  brother:  the  influence  of  the  lattcr 
prevailed  upon  the  queen  to  deprive  him  of  an  office  which 
he  held  near  her  person,  and  to  banish  him,  for  an  indefinite 
time,  to  the  country.  In  this  irksome  retirement,  revenge  and 
despair  working  together  in  the  miiid  of  the  youth,  and  an 
emissary  of  the  duke,  suggesting  to  him  erroneous  counsels  un- 
der the  guise  of  friendship,  he  suddenly  conceived  the  design 
of  embracing  the  Rumish  religion,  and  taking  refuge  with  his 
ura  le  the  pope.  The  partiality  the  pontiff  was  known  to  have 
for  his  countrymen  and  his  relations  ;  the  extraordinary  claim 
to  his  favour  arising  from  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the 
convent ;  his  near  relationship ;  the  sacrifices  made  of  fortune 
and  country  for  conscience-sake  ;  his  own  personal  graces  and 


369 

talents,  all  these  commending  him  so  strongly  to  favour,  what 
might  he  not  expect.  The  nephews  of  former  popes  pointed 
out  to  him  the  career  which  he  imagined  himself  destined  to 
run.  He  reckoned  on  hereditary  honours  and  estates  scarce- 
ly inferior  to  those  enjoyed  by  the  head  of  his  family  in  Eng- 
land, and  even  the  popedom  itself  he  flattered  himself  was  as 
much  within  his  grasp,  as  it  had  been  within  his  uncle's,  whoj 
like  himself  had  been  a  younger  brother,  and  an  exile  for  con- 
science sake. 

."  Seduced  by  these  plausible  views,  dexterously  suggested 
to  him  by  his  brother's  agent,  he  fled  to  Italy,  and  obtained, 
from  his  uncle,  such  a  reception,  as,  for  a  time,  confirmed  all 
his  hopes.  This  illusion,  however,  gradually  disappeared,  and 
instead  of  directing  the  councils,  and  distributing  the  bounties 
of  his  uncle,  he  found  himself  carefully  excluded  from  all  in- 
fluence and  importance  in  the  state.  Instead  of  obtaining  lands 
and  castles  in  his  own  right,  or  mending  his  condition  by  a 
splendid  matrimonial  alliance,  like  the  nephews  of  former  popes, 
he  was  merely  allowed  a  decent  pension,  and  the  quiet  enjoy- 
ment of  all  the  caresses  which  his  personal  merit,  or  the  digni- 
ty of  his  birth  could  procure  for  him  from  others.  His  artifi- 
ces, his  intreaties  or  his  menaces  were  all  thrown  away  upon 
the  inflexible  pontiff.  In  vain  did  he  assume  the  clerical  life  ; 
the  red  hat  was  as  much  beyond  his  reach  after  he  became  a 
priest  as  before. 

"  The  pope  had  too  much  sagacity  to  be  mistaken  in  the 
character  and  views  of  his  nephew.  The  young  man  gave  no 
such  proofs  of  sincerity  and  steadiness  as  to  affbi  d  him  even  a 
pretext  for  deviating  from  the  strict  line,  which  it  became 
a  disinterested  pontiff  to  pursue.  He  readily  granted  his  ne- 
phew's prayers  for  a  dispensation  from  his  newly  taken  vows, 
and  permitted  him,  in  1577,  to  accept  a  military  commis- 
sion from  the  emperor.  Felix's  restless  and  enterprising 
temper,  led  him  to  hope  for  glory  and  distinction,  and  even 
for  kingly  power  and  territor5\  in  a  war  against  the  Turks. 
He  attained,  in  the  campaigns  of  the  next  five  years,  no 
small  portion  of  the  former,  but  not  one  road  to  the  latter. 
At  the  end  of  that  period,  Stephen  Battory,   the  celebrated 

47  * 


370 

king  of  Poland,  died,  and  Felix  entertained  the  bold  design 
of  succeeding  him.  As  this  project  was  not  disadvantage- 
ous to  the  common  cause  of  Christendom,  the  pope  warmly 
espoused  his  cause,  and  in  1585,  at  the  age  of  35,  he  was 
elected  and  firmly  seated  on  the  throne  of  Poland,  through 
the  influence  of  the  emperor  and  the  pontiff. 

*'  No  sooner  had  Felix  gained  the  summit  of  his  ambition, 
than  his  usual  mutability  betrayed  itself.  He  had  strained 
every  faculty  and  nerve  to  overcome  the  obstacles  which 
stood  in  the  way  of  his  election,  and  had  slighted  the  dictate^ 
of  his  uncle's  wisdom,  which  had  warned  him  of  the  turbu- 
lence and  misery  to  which  the  acquisition  would  condemn 
him.  The  pope,  finding  his  nephew  inflexible  in  his  pursuit,  re- 
luctantly afforded  him  all  the  assistance  in  his  power,  In  hoper. 
that,  should  his  efforts  be  successful,  his  influence  over  his 
kinsmen  might  be  employed  for  the  benefit  of  the  Polish  na- 
tion. When  Felix  became  king,  the  pope  supplied  him  with 
the  best  advice,  as  to  the  mode  of  conduct  most  conducive 
to  the  happiness  of  his  subjects  and  his  own  glory.  He  sup- 
plied him  with  sage  counsellors,  skilful  agents,  and  consider- 
able sums  of  money,  and  the  new  monarch  entered  into  the 
part  assigned  him,  with  all  the  zeul  and  docility  to  be  de- 
sired. 

*'  The  Poles  at  this  period,  were  a  nation  scarcely  emerged 
from  barbarism.  A  ferocious  and  tyrannical  nobility,  and  a 
race  of  stupid  slaves  composed  nearly  the  whole  mass  of  the 
people.  The  bond  of  connexion  between  the  several  parts 
and  between  the  whole  nation  and  the  supreme  head,  were 
feeble  and  precarious.  The  Turks,  Muscovites  and  Tartars, 
continually  menaced  Its  tranquility  and  independence  from 
without,  while  differences  of  religion,  inveterate  feuds  among 
the  great,  and  a  passion  for  war,  were  Internal  causes  of  in- 
cessant commotion  and  destructive  violence.  The  objects 
which  the  pope  strenuously  recommended  to  his  nephew,  were 
the  diminution  of  the  privileges  of  the  nobles,  the  exaltation 
of  the  peasants  from  their  present  abject  and  brutal  condi- 
tioHj  the  introduction  and  encouragement  of  commerce  and 
^he   useful  arts,  and   the    extirpation,   by  lenient  roethods,  n^ 


the  new  doctrines  in  religion.  He  did  not  discountenance  his 
nephew's  project,  not  only  of  enlarging  the  royal  power,  but 
of  making  it  hereditary  in  his  own  person,  because  he  con- 
sidered the  system  of  election  as  the  chief  cause  of  the  mi- 
series of  Poland. 

"  Whether  there  was  any  defect  in  the  means  adopted  for 
this  end,  or  whether  the  end  was,  in  itself,  in  the  present 
state  of  things,  unattainable,  or,  which  is  most  likely,  Fe- 
lix possessed  not  sufficient  wisdom  and  steadiness  for  so  dif- 
ficult an  undertaking,  certain  it  is  that  all  his  projects  ended 
only  in  driving  two  adverse  parties  into  war.  War  was  a  scene 
in  which  he  was  much  more  qualified  to  shine  than  in  council, 
and  had  fortune  not  been  remarkably  untoward  he  would  have 
succeeded  in  establishing  an  absolute  monarchy  in  spite  of  all 
opposition. 

«'  A  very  inconsiderable  sum  punctually  remitted  from 
Rome,  and  a  small  but  well  disciplined  army  of  foreign  mer- 
cenaries, together  with  valour  and  conduct,  were  sufficient 
to  surmount  all  opposition.  A  continual  tide  of  success  at- 
tended his  military  operations  and  one  desperate  battle  was  all 
that  remained  to  complete  his  triumph.  The  battle  was 
fought.  He  gained  the  victory,  but,  venturing  too  far  in 
rash  pursuit,  he  himself  was  made  prisoner  by  the  vanquished. 
This  unlucky  accident  turned  the  current  of  success ;  his 
troops  deprived  of  their  leader,  were  disheartened,  and  either 
dispersed  or  deserted  to  the  enemy.  The  nobles  that  had  ad- 
hered to  him,  abandoned  his  cause,  and  joined  his  adversaries 
in  deposing  him  and  electing  a  successor.  He  escaped  an  ig- 
nominious death  only  by  eluding  his  jailers  and  leaving  the 
country. 

"  In  the  miserable  and  hopeless  condition  of  a  fugitive  and 
exile,  he  reached  his  ancient  mansion  at  Rome,  and  there  re- 
ceived tidings  which  made  him  ever  after  consider  his  expul- 
sion from  Poland  as  the  most  fortunate  event  of  his  life.  His 
%vife  was  the  fourth  child  and  only  daughter  of  Alphonso 
D'Este,  duke  of  Ferrara,  Reggio  and  Modina.  ^This  alliance 
had  been  formed  clandestinely,  before  Felix  left  Italy  in  1577. 
The  pope's  refusal  to  make  his  nephew  richer  than  he  found 


372 

him,  had  caused  the  duke  to  refuse  his  consent  to  the  match> 
when  regularly  sought  by  Felix.  Having  obtained  the  maiden's 
own  consent,  she  fled  in  disguise  from  Ferrara,  was  hastily 
married  on  the  road,  and  accompanied  Felix  into  Hungary. 
The  duke  had  interest  enough  at  Vienna  to  have  his  daughter 
restored  to  him.  She  was  imprisoned,  and  treated  for  three 
years,  with  great  rigour.  The  pope,  though  displeased  with 
his  nephew's  conduct,  refused  to  annul  the  marriage,  nor  was 
the  lady  released  and  restored  to  her  husband,  till  after  his 
accession  to  the  Polish  crown.  Qn  the  commencement  of  the 
civil  war,  he  sent  her  and  her  children  ijito  Italy,  and,  after 
a  time  followed  her  himself  in  the  manner  above  related. 

"  In  the  interval,  between  his  escape  from  prison  and  his  ar- 
rival incognito  at  his  wife's  palace  in  Rome,  the  duke  of  Fer- 
rara and  his  three  sons  were  drowned  while  sailing  on  the  Po 
in  a  pleasure  boat.  The  eldest  son  had  been  married  long 
enough  to  have  one  child,  who  perished  with  its  father :  the 
second  son  had  been  married  a  few  weeks,  and  the  third  was 
on  the  eve  of  marriage.  By  this  signal  accident,  Felix  in 
right  of  his  wife,  suddenly  became  duke  of  Ferrara ;  a  princi- 
pality, at  that  time,  one  of  the  richest  and  most  flourishing 
in  Europe,  in  which  the  regal  power  was  thoroughly  es- 
tablished and  extremely  absolute,  and  his  claim  to  which  could 
not  fail  to  be  maintained  by  the  only  two  powers,  whose  good 
will  was  of  any  importance,  the  pope  and  the  emperor.  Such 
were  the  strange  vicissitudes  in  the  life  of  Felix,  during  the 
ten  years  that  elapsed  from  his  flight  from  England  and  his 
escape  from  Poland,  and  thus  was  he  finally  conducted  to  the 
very  point  which  his  ambition  originally  set  before  him,  by 
a  path  that,  to  all  human  wisdom,  was  the  most  random  and 
diverse  that  could  have  been  imagined.  It  is  a  remarkable 
instance  of  the  folly  of  the  wise,  that  Felix  had  uniformly 
acted  in  opposition  to  the  councils  of  his  uncle.  His  flight 
from  England  was  condemned  by  the  pope  ;  his  enlisting  in  the 
emperor's  service,  his  acceptance  of  the  Polish  crown,  his 
marriage,  his  resorting  to  arms  in  support  of  his  political 
projects,  .were  all  strongly  disapproved  of  not  only  as  flowing 
from  wrong  designs,  but  as  means  unsuitable  to  these  designs, 


373 

and  yet  by  a  manifest  and  necessary  chain  did  all  these  events 
place  him  in  the  very  situation  to  which  he  most  fondly 
aspired. 

"  A  great  deal  of  good  will  and  affection  had  always  sub- 
sisted, in  spite  of  the  nephew's  perversenesses,  between  him 
and  his  uncle.  The  latter  rejoiced  in  the  good  fortune  of  hift 
kinsman,  who  still  endeavoured  to  conform  himself,  to  his 
uncle's  advice  in  the  government  of  his  new  territory.  To 
this  disposition  was  chiefly  owing  the  uncommon  prosperity 
which  attended  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  performed  with  great 
success,  the  part  of  a  wise  and  beneficent  governor,  and  his 
virtues  met  their  due  reward  in  the  felicity  and  gratitude  of 
his  people. 

*'  It  was  generally  acknowledged  then,  considering  the  fee- 
ble and  exhausted  state  of  the  Spanish  monarchy,  and  the  un- 
common riches  and  strength  of  the  papacy,  the  conquest  of 
the  kingdom  of  Naples  would  have  been  no  very  formidable 
undertaking.  There  were  not  wanting  many  earnest  advo- 
cates of  this  project  at  the  pontifical  court.  There  were,  in- 
deed, not  a  few,  who  believed  that  a  pontiff  of  Felix's  cha- 
racter and  great  fiscal  and  military  strength  would  have  found 
it  easy  to  drive  all  foreigners  out  of  Italy,  and  have  either  ap- 
propriated their  dominions  to  the  church,  or  bestowed  it  on  his 
own  family.  Such  splendid  projects  were  cherished  with  great 
eagerness  by  the  duke  of  Ferrara,  but  they  were  always  instant- 
ly and  sternly  rejected  by  the  pontiff  himself,  who,  instead  of 
feeding  his  fancy  with  such  visions,  had  early  formed  the 
resolution  of  resigning,  before  his  death,  the  popedom  itself. 

"  Duke  Felix  put  his  eldest  son  under  his  uncle's  care  at 
Altamura,  and  made  a  will  in  1595,  constituting  him  guar- 
dian of  his  son  and  regent  of  his  principality,  in  case  of  his 
own  death  before  his  heir  came  of  age.  At  this  time  the  duke 
was  only  forty-seven  years  old,  while  the  abdicated  pontiff, 
now  abbot  of  St.  Ulpha,  was  seventy-five.  Six  years  after- 
wards (1601)  the  duke  was  hurried  to  the  grave  by  a  fever 
caught  while  travelling  by  night,  over  an  unwholesome  coun- 
try. His  son  Alphonso,  was  only  fifteen  years  old,  and  the  tu- 
tor assumed  the  government  of  his  territories,  and  exercised 


374 

his  power  with  all  the  vigour  of  youth.  When  the  lord  reached 
his  twenty-second  year,  the  period  fixed  for  his  majority  in  his 
father's  will,  the  uncle  and  guardian  gladly  resigned  his  au- 
thority and  once  more  returned  to  the  solitudes  of  Altamura, 
and  here  he  quietly  resigned  his  breath,  in  the  year  1623,  at 
the  great  age  of  103  years. 

"  Ferrara,  Modina  and  Reggio  have  continued,  with  little 
permanent  alteration  in  this  branch  of  the  Carril  family  till  the 
beginning  of  the  ninteenth  century.  Few  families  have  been 
more  fortunate  in  producing  an  uninterrupted  succession  of 
male  heirs  distinguished  in  general  bx'  their  wisdom  and  in- 
tegrity. Twelve  princes  of  the  names  of  Arthur  and  Felix 
have  peaceably  succeeded  each  other,  and  their  territories, 
though  occasionally  disturbed,  incroached  upon,  invaded  or 
pillaged  by  their  quarrelsome  neighbours,  have  remained  near- 
ly stationary  in  extent,  riches  and  population  from  the  death  oi 
the  first  Arthur  in  1640. 

"  Arthur  the  Second,  obtained  from  the  pope  and  emperor, 
the  privilege  of  consolidating  his  territories  into  one  principal- 
ity, by  the  name  of  Felisca,  by  which  name  it  has  since  been 
generally  known. 

"  This  state  contained  in  1690,  about  3500  square  miles,  and 
500,000  people.  Three  hundred  thousand  were  engaged  in 
agriculture,  and  two  hundred  thousand  were  distributed  in 
cities,  towns  and  villages.  The  villages  contained  about  250 
inhabitants  each,  and  were  in  number  about  three  hundred. 
Each  tovv'n  had  an  average  population  of  5000,  and  were  10 
in  number.  The  cities  of  Ozlanto,  Bundisi  and  Turantc,  each 
contained  about  25,000  people.  The  average  i-cntal  of  city 
houses  was  50  ducats  a  year ;  the  whole  rental  of  7000  such 
houses  was  350,000  ducats.  Town  or  burgh  houses  brought 
25  ducats  total,  of  4000  houses,  1000  ducats.  A  village  house 
was  worth  5  ducats  a  year,  or,  for  12000  homesteads, 
60,000  ducats.  The  whole  rental  of  dwelling  houses  appears 
to   amount  to  500,000  ducats. 

"  Nearly  all  the  plains  were  under  cultivation.  The  moun- 
tainous region  in  the  centre  v/hich  occupied  an  horizontal 
kngth  of  100  by  an  horizontal  breadth  of  10  miles,  engrossed 


375 

about  1500  square  miles  of  the  whole  surface.  This  region 
afforded  some  pasture,  but  principally  consisted  of  rocks  and 
forest,  the  former  of  which  afforded  extensive  quarries  of  the 
finest  marble,  while  the  latter  contained  inexhaustible  stores  of 
timber,  for  building,  furniture  and  fuel. 

"The  cultivated  plains  consisted  of  about  1,300,000  acres, 
the  annual  rental  of  which  amounted  to  about  the  same  num- 
ber of  ducats  ;  so  that  the  annual  rent  of  house  and  land  ex- 
ceeded 1 800  ducats. 

"  The  ducal  revenue  consisted  of  one  fifth  of  the  above 
sum  ;  as  a  perpetual  land  tax  and  valuation ;  of  a  capitation  of 
1  ducat  which  produced  500  ducats  of  the  rental  of  demesne 
land,  amounting  to  64,000  of  a  profit  in  the  domestic  sale  and 
exportation  of  salt ;  an  article,  wherever  found,  accounted  pub- 
lic property,  and  of  which  there  Vv'ere  very  fertile  mines  in  the 
province.  Of  this  commodity  about  50,000  bushels  were  an- 
nually consumed  at  home  and  four  times  that  quantity  ex- 
ported. Each  bushel  yielding  a  clear  profit  to  the  exchequer  of 
1  ducat,  this  branch  of  revenue  produced,  at  least,  250  ducats. 
Hence  it  appears  that  the  ducal  revenue  amounted  to  about 
J, 000,000  ducats. 

"  On  an  estimation  being  made  or  the  national  income,  it  ap- 
peared that  the  whole  equally  divided  among  all  the  individu- 
als, amounted  to  20  ducats  each  person,  or  a  total  of  10  mil- 
lions, the  tythe  of  which  belonged  to  the  prince  alone. 

"  When  this  family  first  obtained  possession,  they  found 
themselves  no  more  than  the  head  of  about  three  hundred 
feudal  barons,  v/ho  exercised  all  the  rights  of  both  govern- 
ment and  property  over  the  tenants  of  their  lands  and 
houses,  and  of  a  few  republican  corporations,  who  acted  aj 
sovereigns  within  their  own  walls.  The  mass  of  the  people 
were  held  in  degrading  bondage  by  the  aristocracy.  The  pro- 
prietors chiefly  spent  their  time  and  their  revenue  in  foreign 
countries,  and  trusted  their  authority  to  ignorant,  tvrannical 
and  mercenary  agents.  The  sea  coasts  were  rr.vaged  by  the 
Turks  till  they  had  nearly  become  desolate.  The  springs  of 
government  had  become  totally  relaxed,  and  every  species  of 
crime  and   outrage  prevailed  without  restraint  or  punishm'rnr.. 


J/6 

The  whole  population  did  not  exceed  200,000  of  whom  it 
was  computed  that  two  thousand  annually  died  by  poison 
and  the  poinard.  Several  strong  holds  in  the  mountains 
were  possessed  by  banditti,  whose  numbers  exceeded  three 
thousand,  and  who  waged  a  regular  predatory  war  on  the 
peaceful  inhabitants  of  the  vallies.  The  Turkish  corsairs 
carried  away  every  year  into  captivity,  not  less  than  three 
thousand  persons ;  while  the  miserable  remnant,  suffered  all 
the  evils  of  superstition,  ignorance  and  misgovernment.  All 
the  internal  and  external  causes  of  decay  and  ruin,  which  for 
half  a  century,  afflicted  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  operated  in 
these  islands  with  unusual  violence,  and  though  the  most  fer- 
tile and  most  favourably  situated  for  arts,  commerce  and 
agriculture,  it  was  in  the  most  desolate  and  deplorable 
condition. 

"  The  finest  wheat  in  the  world  grew  in  these  isl.es. 
which  however,  was  nearly  extinct  as  it  was  not  allowed  to 
be  exported,  and  as  the  people  subsisted  almost  wholly  oc 
maize.  Of  this  grain  enough  was  raised  to  maintain  the  in- 
habitants and  no  more  :  consequently,  not  above  100,000 
acres  out  of  2,800,000  was  cultivated  with  any  species  of 
corn.  The  pastures  maintained  about  20,000  cattle  and 
200,000  sheep,  and  consisted  of  about  300,000  acres.  Cot- 
ton, vines,  olives  and  fruits  of  which  little  more  was  raised 
than  sufficed  for  the  wants  of  the  people  did  not  engross  above 
20,000  acres  more.  The  whole  cultivated  or  enclosed  ground 
fell  considerably  short  of  700  square  miles  which  was  only  ^-th  of 
the  whole.  The  high  lands,  contained  ^ths,  while  the  rest  of 
the  plains  (about  1300  square  miles)  was  consigned  to  the 
lynxes,  wolves,  stags  and  wild  boars,  and  was  overrun  with 
pestilential  bogs  or  impenetrable  thickets. 

"  After  the  extortions  of  pirates  and  banditti,  and  the  em- 
bezzlements of  agents  were  deducted,  the  whole  amount  of 
rent  and  capitation  which  came  into  the  coffers  of  the  barons 
did  not  exceed  300,000  ducats.  The  administration  of  jus- 
tice in  the  cities,  and  a  vast  number  of  duties  and  customs 
brought  to  the  treasury  of  the  prince  about  180,000  ducats, 
which  being  entirely  expended  in  maintaining  a  governor  and  p. 


377 

few  garrisons,  about  1500  men  in  all  wretchedly  armed,  death- 
ed  and  provided,  left  nothing  for  the  king's  treasury. 

"  The  place  of  governor,  and  eight  or  ten  of  the  most  lucra- 
tive offices  were  usually  filled  by  Spaniards,  whose  flatteries 
or  services  at  court  were  rewarded  by  enjoying  these  opportu- 
nities of  enriching  themselves.  As  their  whole  ingenuity  was 
employed  in  augmenting  the  regular  gains  of  a  short  and  pre- 
carious office,  by  fees  and  perquisites,  by  selling  justice  and 
commuting  crimes  for  money ;  as  this  system  was  industri- 
ously carried  on  by  the  agents  of  each  petty  baron  as  well  as 
by  those  of  the  king,  we  may  easily  imagine  the  general  havoc 
and  destruction  which  overwhelmed  this  neglected  corner  of 
the  Spanish  empire. 

"  When  the  Normans  conquered  Naples  and  Sicily,  in  1127, 
the  province  of  Taranto  became  the  property  of  one  of  the 
descendants  of  Tancred,  who  held  it  as  a  fief  of  the  crown, 
and  whose  posterity  took  the  name  of  D'Oria,  from  a  castle 
called  Oria,  which  he  built,  and  which  afterwards  became  q. 
royal  residence.  In  the  various  and  destructive  revolutions 
which  afterwards  happened,  this  petty  kingdom  continued  to 
subsist,  and  the  family,  through  twenty-two  generations,  in 
some  degree,  maintained  its  ancient  lustre  and  prerogatives, 
till  the  contests  between  Charles  VIII.  and  Alphonso  II. 
Ferdinand,  the  father  of  Alphonso,  and  the  natural  son  of  Fer- 
dinand the  catholic,  by  whom  Naples  was  bequeathed  to  him 
by  will,  in  1496,  found  many  difficulties  in  attaining  possession, 
chiefly  through  the  opposition  of  Rinaldo  IX.  prince  of  Ta- 
ranto, who  claimed  the  crown  for  himself  as  the  only  legiti- 
mate descendant  of  the  Norman  princes.  The  prince,  who 
might  have  been  successful  in  the  field,  was  poisoned  by  his  ad- 
versary, and  his  son  Rinaldo  X.  took  refuge  in  France.  His 
exhortations  were  ihe  principal  cause  of  the  invasion  of  Charles 
VIII.  in  the  successful  issue  of  which  he  regained  his  prin- 
cipality, with  such  additions  of  power  and  prerogative  as  to 
make  Taranto  nearly  a  sovereign  and  independent  state.  On 
the  expulsion  of  the  French,  and  the  re-establishment  of 
Frederick,  the  nominal  submission  and  co-operation  of  this 
prince   was   purchased   by  the  generosity  and  moderation   of 

48  * 


378 

Frederick,  but  being  thwarted  in  some  unreasonable  preten- 
sion, he  brought  the  French  once  more  into  the  kingdom. 
The  war  that  was  terminated  by  the  establishment  of  the 
Spaniards  in  Naples,  in  1503,  was  fatal  to  this  family.  Rinal- 
do  X.  was  slain  in  battle  and  his  children  withdrew,  on  the 
confiscation  of  their  property,  to  Rome.  Here  they  subsisted 
in  obscurity  and  poverty  till  the  viceroyship  of  cardinal  Ca- 
lonna,  whose  sister  married  Rinaldo  XII.  the  head  of  the 
D'Orias.  Colonna  had  sufficient  interest  with  Charles  V.  to 
obtain  for  his  brother-in-law,  in  1533,  the  restoration  of  Altimu- 
ra,  a  lordship  on  Puglia,  and  a  part  of  their  ancient  patrimony. 
Camillo,  the  son  of  this  Rinaldo,  was  the  friend,  above  men- 
tioned, of  Pope  Felix,  whose  tranquil  and  unambitious  cha- 
racter gave  no  disturbance  or  suspicion  to  the  Spanish  govern- 
ment. 

"  When  Felix  returned  home  from  Padua  in  1541,  to  be 
made  bishop  of  St.  Ulpha,  he  prevailed  upon  Camillo  D'Oria, 
his  friend  to  accompany  him.  Mar)',  the  favourite  sister  of 
F'^lix  was  an  additional  bond  of  alliance  between  these  friends. 
He  promoted  so  successfully  a  match  b&tween  them  that  the 
union  was  effected  in  1544,  and  the  prince,  his  father,  dying, 
he  carried  his  bride  to  Italy. 

*<  Camillo  followed  his  wife  to  the  grave  in  the  year  1573. 
By  his  will  he  left  the  guardianship  of  his  infant  daughter  Ca- 
milla, jointly  to  his  sister  Julia  and  the  pope.  The  lordship 
of  Altimura  he  left  to  his  sister  for  her  life,  and  then  to  the 
pope  for  his  life,  and  afterwards  to  his  daughter,  provided 
she  married  agreeably  to  the  pope's  choice  :  otherwise  the  es- 
tate was  to  be  at  the  absolute  disposal  of  the  latter.  At  this 
time  the  orphan  heiress  was  12  years  of  age. 

"The  younger  Felix  who  came  to  Italy  in  1570,  and  had 
taken  orders  with  a  view  of  obtaining  ecclesiastical  prefer- 
ment, had  hitherto  met  with  nothing  but  mortification  and  dis- 
appointment. The  military  life  had  always  been  most  conge- 
nial to  his  habits  and  disposition,  and  this  he  had  renounced, 
merely  through  the  dictates  of  a  restless  ambition.  Finding 
his  uncle  by  no  means  disposed  to  raise  him  to  the  summit  oi 
honour,  without  a  longer  probation  and  a  stricter  scrutiny  than 


379 

his  patience  could  brook,  he  quickly  repented  of  his  precipita- 
tion, and  finally  resolved  to  resume  the  character  of  a  layman. 
While  forming  these  resolutions,  the  death  of  Camillo  D'Oria, 
and  the  beauty  and  splendid  prospects  of  his  daughter  suggest- 
ed a  new  and  alluring  project  to  his  fancy. 

"  If  hereditary  right  were  allowed  its  due  force,  the  true 
title  to  the  throne  of  Naples  had  visibly  and  indisputably  cen- 
tered in  this  daughter  of  the  D'Orias.  The  French  and  Ar- 
ragonese  claims  to  that  kingdom,  were  founded  in  palpable 
violence  and  usurpation.  They  were  supported  by  arms  and 
by  faction  alone,  while  the  veneration  of  the  people  belonged 
only  to  the  house  of  D'Oria. 

"  But  if  the  claim  of  this  family  to  the  whole  kingdom  were 
allowed  to  be  subverted  or  weakened  by  an  interruption  of  pos- 
session for  more  than  four  centuries,  their  title  to  the  province 
of  Taranto  was  exempt  from  a  similar  objection.  No  more 
thah  70  years  had  elapsed  since  their  quiet  possession  of  that 
principality,  and  the  justice  of  their  claim,  as  well  as  the  ini- 
quity of  the  Spaniards  in  crushing  it,  was  fresh  in  the  memo- 
ry and  conviction  of  all  men.  The  orphan  was  generally  and 
familiarly  known  as  the  lineal  and  legitimate  descendant  of 
Rogero,  and  was  often  called  by  a  kind  of  custom  or  licence, 
queen  of  Naples  and  princess  of  Taranto.  Her  right  had  as 
many  partizans  within  and  without  Italy  as  there  were  persons 
who  bestowed  any  reflection  on  the  subject,  and  who  were  not 
devoted  by  their  interests  to  Spain. 

"  All  the  Italian  politicians  of  that  age  considered  the  do- 
minion of  strangers  in  Italy  as  a  glaring  usurpation,  and  it  was 
deemed  a  mark  of  true  patriotism  to  indulge  M'ishes  and  suggest 
projects  for  their  expulsion.  These  reasoners,  while  they  took 
into  their  view  the  whole  Peninsula,  were  particularly  ardent  and 
zealous  with  respect  to  the  two  Sicilies  where  the  dominion  of 
Barbarians  was  supported  by  less  plausible  pretexts,  and  had 
been  more  capricious  and  ruinous  than  in  any  other  quarter  of 
Italy.  The  vicinity  of  the  pope's  residence  to  this  kingdom, 
the  extraordinary  vigour  of  the  present  pontiff,  the  order 
which  his  wisdom  and  energy  had  established  within  his  own 
precincts  ;  the  magnitude  of  his  resources  and  the  feudal  su- 


380 

jiremacy  which  he  already  enjoyed,  naturally  pointed  him  dut 
as  the  sole  and  proper  agent  in  this  revolution.  The  felicity 
enjoyed  by  his  subjects  contrasted  with  the  miseries  endured 
by  the  ill-fated  slaves  of  Spain  could  not  fail  to  inspire  the 
people  of  Naples  with  fervent  wishes  for  such  a  change.  The 
overgrown  empire  and  arrogant  conduct  of  Spain  would  have 
made  all  the  other  powers  of  Christendom  friendly  to  this 
scheme,  while  the  declining  and  languishing  state  of  that  mon- 
archy exposed  them  more  easily  to  be  attacked  and  subdued. 
The  general  security  from  the  ambition  of  the  Turks,  made  a 
wise  and  vigorous  government  more  necessary  in  Naples,  and 
especially  in  the  province  of  Taranto  than  elsewhere,  because 
it  was  the  point  most  exposed  to  insult  and  invasion,  and 
through  which  lay  the  most  practicable  road  to  the  heart  of 
Italy.  This  consideration  obtained  new  force  from  the  memo- 
ry of  Solyman's  irruption,  who  made  good  his  footing  in  the 
kingdom  more  through  the  weakness  and  supineness  of  the 
reigning  government  than  from  any  other  cause.  When  to  all 
these  views,  the  plea  of  justice,  arising  from  the  title  of  the 
D'Orias  was  added  it  seemed  certain  that  the  pontiff  would 
at  length  determine  on  hostile  measures. 

"  When  these  things  were  revolved  by  the  nephew,  he  was 
seized  with  an  ardent  desire  of  securing  to  himself  this  splen- 
did inheritance  by  marrying  his  cousin.  He  therefore  made 
haste  to  lay  down  the  emblems  of  priesthood,  and  anticipate 
all  other  aspirers  to  so  desirable  a  match.  He  naturally 
thought  that  as  his  personal  qualities  did  not  place  him  below 
any  other,  his  near  relationship,  both  to  the  pontiff  and  his 
ward,  would  be  irresistable  pleas  in  his  favour  with  the  most 
impartial,  and  though  the  pope  should  obstinately  decline  any 
attack  on  Naples  or  Taranto  on  his  behalf,  the  lady's  right 
to  Altimura  was  at  least  settled,  and  its  benefits  in  actual 
possession. 

"  On  the  first  point,  the  pope  readily  conceded  to  his  wish- 
es, and  unfettered  him  from  vows  to  which  he  believed  his 
nephew  would  never  have  submitted.  On  the  second  point, 
he  did  not  show  the  same  facility.  With  regard  to  his  niece, 
he  declared  himself  determined  to  decline  all  proposals  till  the 


lady  was  twenty  years  of  age,  and  then  to  sanction  no  wooer 
that  was  not  agreeable  to  her.  As  to  her  claims  upon  Na- 
ples, he  avowed  his  solemn  resolution  never  to  prosecute  them 
by  force  of  arms,  either  on  behalf  of  his  niece  or  of  the  papa- 
cy, and  forbade  his  friends  and  ministers  to  urge  him  any  fur- 
ther on  that  head.  On  this  topic,  there  had  been  always  but 
one  voice  among  those  counsellors  who  were  not  Spaniards. 

*'  This  moderation  in  Felix  was  the  more  remarkable  as  his 
whole  ministerial  and  ecclesiastical  life  in  England  had  been 
spent  in  efforts  to  counteract  the  projects  of  Charles  and 
Philip,  and  as,  since  his  exaltation  to  the  popedom  he  had 
secretly  befriended  Elizabeth  and  always  refused  assistance  to 
her  enemy.  In  both  circumstances,  however,  Felix  had  been 
governed  by  a  disinterested  regard  to  justice. 

"  The  pride  of  Philip  could  not  conceal  from  him  that  he 
owed  the  possession  of  Naples  to  the  moderation  of  the  pon- 
tiff, and  such  renown  for  equity  had  the  pope  obtained  that 
Philip  considered  his  life  as  the  best  security,  he  could  possi- 
bly have  for  possession.  To  this  circumstance  was  Felix, 
probably  indebted  for  his  long  life,  since  it  prevented  those  at- 
tempts at  poisoning  or  assassination  which  were  then  common, 
and  which  were  generally  considered  as  the  favourite  instru- 
ments of  Spanish  policy. 

"  The  nephew,  irritated  as  well  as  mortified  by  these  refu- 
sals, entered  into  a  scheme  for  accomplishing  his  favourite 
ends  without  the  knowledge  of  the  pontiff.  He  began  to  ru- 
minate on  plans  for  seizing  some  fortresses  in  Naples  and  Si- 
cily and  exciting  a  rebellion  among  the  people,  and  had  made 
some  progress  in  this  plot,  when  his  agents  being  detected  by 
the  Spanish  ministry,  formal  complaint  was  made  to  the  pope. 
The  nephew,  in  consequence,  received  a  severe  reprimand 
and  was  strictly  enjoined  to  drop  all  such  dangerous  and  un- 
lawful projects,  on  pain  of  condign  punishment.  While  writh- 
ing under  this  new  disappointment,  the  imperial  ambassador  in- 
vited Felix  to  fight  against  the  Turks  in  Hungary  under  his 
banners.  The  uncle  warmly  approving  the  proposal  and  pro- 
mising to  support  him  by  large  supplies  of  money,  he  gladly 


382 

consented  to  change  the  scene  and  try  his  fortune  on  a  nevi 
theatre. 

"  By  a  judicious  use  of  the  pope's  liberal  reniittances  j  by 
improving  the  constitution  and  discipline  of  his  troops  as  near 
as  possible  to  the  standard  of  that  of  the  Janissaries  ;  and  by 
memorable  exertions  of '  valour  and  military  conduct,  he 
speedily  obtained  a  splendid  reputation,  and  gained  gi-eater  ad- 
vantages over  the  infidels  than  any  former  leader.  Stephen 
Battori,  king  of  Poland,  soon  acquired  such  esteem  for  him, 
that  he  entrusted  him  with  the  supreme  command  in  an  ar- 
my raised  to  expel  the  sultan  from  Transylvania,  his  native 
principality.  After  many  bloody  campaigns  in  which  he  wag- 
ed a,  successful  war  against  superior  forces,  the  province  was 
freed  from  the  invaders.  The  king  made  him  his  delegate, 
and  he  governed  that  extensive  province  with  great  felicity  and 
renown.  By  this  conduct  he  gained  the  cordial  approbation  of 
his  uncle,  who  opened  his  treasures  for  his  use  with  less  scru- 
ple because  his  exertions  contributed  to  the  common  security 
of  Christendom. 

"On  his  expulsion  from  the  throne  of  Poland,  in  1586,  he 
repaired  to  Rome  to  enjoy  some  tranquillity  after  his  recent 
hardships  and  fatigues,  by  which  his  health  had  been  greatly 
and  even  dangerously  effected,  and  to  crave  his  uncle's  assist- 
ance in  restoring  him.  The  pope  counselled  him  to  lay  aside 
all  thoughts  of  his  lost  dignity,  as  his  rival  was  now  too 
firmly  seated  to  be  removed,  and  as  the  papal  revenues  could 
not  be  justifiably  employed  in  contests  of  that  nature.  As  no 
further  opposition  was  made  to  his  wishes  with  regard  to  the 
princess  of  Altimura,  who  had  remained  unmarried  till  this 
time,  and  who  lent  a  favourable  ear  to  his  vows,  he  acquiesced 
without  murmuring,  in  these  pacific  councils.  New  events  in 
Naples  opened  soon  after  unexpected  prospects  to  his  am- 
bition. 

*'  The  state  of  things,  as  already  described,  in  the  island  of 
Sardinia,  soon  led  to  an  extraordinary  revolution.  Antonio 
Mozzi  was  the  son  of  an  advocate  at  Ostuni.  He  betrayed 
even  in  childhood,  a  turbulent  and  vicious  disposition,  and  all 
his  evil  propensities  acquired  strength  as  he  advanced  in  years. 


383 

He  committed  many  heinous  crimes,  which  escaped  pun- 
ishment by  reason  of  his  father's  influence,  and  the  general  re- 
laxation of  the  laws.  At  length,  transported  with  rage  on  the 
advocates  rebuking  him  from  some  atrocious  offence,  he  slew 
his  father  with  his  own  hand,  and  this  crime  exposing  him  to 
punishment  he  took  refuge  with  the  outlaws  of  the  moun- 
tains. Here  he  outstripped  in  courage  and  cruelty,  the  old- 
est of  his  comrades,  and  soon  became  a  leader.  In  this  sta- 
tion, his  views  gradually  enlarged,  and  after  drawing  all  the 
dispersed  troops  under  his  own  standard,  he  meditated  no  less 
than  the  regular  conquest  of  the  whole  country.  By  a  series 
of  rapid  and  skilful  enterprises  he  accomplished  this  object  in 
a  short  time,  and  defeated  all  the  troops  which  the  government 
had  sent  against  him.  He  proceeded  in  so  judicious  a  man- 
ner to  model  and  strengthen  his  government,  and  to  seek  the 
aid  of  foreign  states  especially  that  of  the  Turkish  sultan,  that 
the  court  of  Spain  began  to  be  seriously  alarmed  for  the  safety 
of  the  whole  kingdom.  In  this  dilemma,  Philip  made  applica- 
tion to  the  pope,  and  offered  to  invest  his  niece  and  nephew 
with  the  sovereignty  of  this  province,  under  certain  conditions, 
provided  the  latter  would  find  means  to  expel  Casetti.  The 
pope  and  his  nephew  were  well  disposed  to  hearken  to  these 
overtures,  but  would  not  consent  to  take  the  gift  burthened 
with  any  limitations  or  conditions  but  merely  that  of  recover- 
ing the  province  without  any  assistance  from  Philip.  As  Ca- 
setti was  quickening  his  preparations  for  invading  the  other 
provinces,  and  certain  advices  were  received  that  the  sultan 
was  preparing  to  second  him  with  a  considerable  force,  all 
scruples  and  delays  were  at  an  end,  and  Felix  was  made  ab- 
solute sovereign  of  the  country  on  the  sole  condition  of  con- 
quering it  in  a  limited  time. 

<*  As  soon  as  the  treaty  was  ratified,  Felix  began  his  prepa- 
rations^ and  the  pope  considering  the  expulsion  of  Mozzi  as  an 
act  of  self-defence  against  the  Turk,  was  liberal  of  his  assist-- 
ance.  Many  officers  and  soldiers  who  served  under  him  in 
Hungary,  obeyed  his  summons,  and  in  a  short  time,  he  formed 
an  army  of  thirty  thousand  men.  This  numerous  force  was 
no  more  than  the  nature  of  the  warfare  and  the  strength  of  the 


enemy  required.  Casetti  Mozzi  had  raised  his  army  to  fort)' 
thousand  men ;  the  suhan  had  supplied  him  with  store  of 
arms  and  ammunition,  and  a  considerable  armament  was  dai- 
ly expected  to  take  possession  of  some  convenient  harbour. 

*<  Mozzi  proved  himself  a  skilful  general,  and  regulated  hia 
defences  in  such  a  manner  as  to  leave  little  hope  of  success  to 
his  adversaries.  He  meditated  a  war  of  skirmishes  and  posts, 
and  so  extensive  was  his  knowledge  of  the  country  and  so  nu- 
merous and  impregnable  his  fortresses  that  such  a  plan,  strict- 
ly adhered  to,  would  have  made  him  invincible.  The  negli- 
gence of  some  of  his  officers  and  the  impetuosity  of  his  troops 
partly  defeated  this  cautionary  plan,  and  brought  on  a  drawn 
battle  between  7000  of  his  men  and  6000  of  the  enemy.  This 
contest  was  carried  on  with  great  obstinacy  for  three  days, 
when  Casetti  was  compelled  to  retire,  leaving  four  thousand  of 
his  own  men  and  two  thousand  of  his  enemies  dead  on  the  field. 
This  war  which  was  prosecuted  without  intermission  for  seven 
years  and  an  half,  and  which  ended  in  the  total  extermination  of 
the  Banditti,  abounded  with  deeds  of  valour  and  honour,  be- 
yond any  which  have  ever  been  recorded.  The  crown  which 
was  thus  hardly  earned,  has  since  been  as  bravely  preserved  by 
the  posterity  of  Felix.  A  curious  computation  is  found  in  the 
histories  of  this  war,  of  the  havoc  it  occasioned,  of  which  the 
following  are  some  of  the  particulars.  We  may  observe  that 
when  Mozzi  clearly  perceived  his  cause  to  be  desperate,  he 
and  his  followers  made  up  their  resolution  to  die,  but  to  sweet- 
en their  death  by  as  much  revenge  as  possible.  Mozzi  himself, 
and  a  few  followers  escaped  to  Turkey,  and  his  valour  and 
fortune  finally  conducted  him  to  the  visiership,  and  he  finally 
closed  his  tempestuous  career  in  a  peaceful  death,  at  sixty 
years  of  age.  There  fell  by  the  sword,  on  the  side  of  the  ban- 
ditti, 75,000.  He  compelled  every  man  able  to  bear  arms,  to 
take  them  up  in  his  defence,  and  hence  the  whole  community 
became  soldiers  on  one  side  or  the  other. 

*'  Felix  began  the  war  witli  30,000,  and  continual  recruits, 
being  supplied,  the  whole  number  enlisted  in  the  course  of  the 
war,  nmgunted  to  70,000,  of  which  about  10,000  deserted  and 


385  ^  , 

were  afterwards  slain,  and  of  the  rest  only  20,000  survived  to 
accompany  the-  victor  in  his  triumph. 

**  Ofthe  unarmed  people,  there  were  massacred  100,000.  There 
were  starved  in  the  forests,  about  6000.  Despair  drove  to 
suicide  upwards  of  1000.  Of  houses  pillaged  and  destroyed^ 
there  were  50,000 ;  and  the  destruction  of  cattle  and  corn 
was  beyond  computation. 

"  Such  were  the  poAverful  effects  of  good  government,  and 
so  rapid  is  the  healing  operation  of  peace  and  security,  that  in 
twenty  years  almost  all  the  vestiges  of  this  havoc  were  oblite- 
rated, a  new  generation  arose  more  than  twice  as  numerous  as 
the  former ;  all  the  inveterate  evils  of  the  ancient  government 
had  disappeared,  and  a  tide  of  felicity  flowed  over  the  land 
such  as  no  part  of  Italy  or  Europe  at  that  time  could  parallel. 

"  On  the  death  of  pope  Paul  the  third,  in  1549,  the  cardinal 
of  St.  Ulpha,  though  only  twenty-nine  years  of  age,  had  very 
nearly  attained  the  papacy.  His  illustrious  descent,  being  the 
grandson  of  Henry  the  Seventh  ;  his  exertions  and  sufferings 
in  the  cause  of  religion ;  the  unbounded  reverence  paid  to  his 
virtues,  pleaded  strongly  in  his  favour  with  those  who  were 
sensible  how  much  the  dignity  of  the  holy  see  had  been  im- 
paired by  the  vices  and  misconduct  of  the  late  pontiff.  The 
lutheran  heresy  owed  its  rapid  progress  in  the  world  to  nothing 
more  than  to  the  personal  character  of  the  heads  of  the  church, 
and  to  those  abuses  with  which  the  papal  government  was  ac- 
knowledged, both  by  friends  and  enemies,  to  be  infected.  The 
surest  antidote  therefore  to  this  heresy,  was  the  choice  of  u 
man,  who  though  so  young,  had  established  a  character  for 
wisdom,  integrity  and  piety  beyond  any  of  his  contemporaries. 
With  such  reasoners,  his  youth  and  good  constitution  were 
additional  recommendations,  because  they  furnished  some  se- 
curity that  a  salutary  reign  would  be  likewise  a  long  one. 

'*  The  cardinal,  since  his  exile,  had  been  legate  of  Avignon, 
and  the  energy  and  wisdom  of  his  government  had  already 
made  him  the  darling  of  the  people.  While  lie  governed 
Avignon,  he  made  it  his  whole  employment  to  reform  and  be- 
nefit the  people  under  his  care,  and  gave  such  signal  instance;5 
of  beneficence    and  justice,  as  acquired  for  him.  with  the  su- 

49  ^'- 


386 

perstitious,  the  reputation  of  a  saint.  He  conducted  himseli 
with  so  much  humanity  towards  the  protestants  within  his  dio- 
cese as  in  a  great  measure  to  check  the  progress  of  the  new 
opinions.  The  gratitude  and  love  with  which  he  Inspired  he- 
retics made  more  converts  than  t^Tanny  and  persecution  made 
elsewhere.  Those  that  v/ere  invincible  by  gentle  means,  he 
banished,  but  allowed  them  to  carry  awav  their  property  or 
dispose  of  it,  without  material  injurv.  During  his  legateship 
none  were  punished  with  death  for  their  religion,  and  vet  here- 
sy had  wholly  disappeared  within  the  limits  of  his  province. 
In  fine,  he  displayed  at  Avignon  all  the  virtues  which  he  after- 
wards exhibited  at  Rome  on  a  larger  scale. 

•'  In  1548,  the  plague  raged  with  great  vehemence  at  Avig- 
non and  its  neighbourhood.  The  legate  had  been  called  to 
Rome,  and  been  offered  a  more  advantageous  government  in 
Itah',  but  pltving  the  miseries  of  tlie  Avignonese,  he  chose  to 
return  thither,  in  the  height  of  the  pestilence.  By  entering  the 
city  without  fears  for  his  own  safety,  putting  into  force  various 
salutary  regulations,  and  inspecting  and  superintending  ever}" 
thing  in  his  own  person,  he  checked  or  mitigated  the  evik 
which  had  prevailed.  As  he  exposed  himself  so  far  as  to  at- 
tend the  sick  in  some  cases  and  bury  the  dead  Avlth  his  owa 
hands  without  taking  the  infection,  his  reputation  acquired 
new  lustre,  and  he  was  generally  regarded  as  the  favourite  in- 
strument of  Heaven. 

"  Notwithstanding  his  great  merit,  the  reigning  pope  regard- 
ed him  with  suspicion  and  aversion.  As  the  cardinal  could 
nevel-  be  brought  to  commend  the  conduct  of  the  pontiff,  and 
on  all  occasions  gave  advice  adverse  to  his  wishes,  and  those  of 
his  grandson,  he  incurred  their  hatred,  and  was  deprived  of  his 
legateship.  He  was  even  accused  of  heresy  and  of  treason  in 
failing  to  execute  certain  orders  received  from  Rome,  respect-, 
mg  the  punishment  of  dissidents,  and  being  summoned  thither 
to  defend  himself,  he  set  out,  without  deiav,  on  the  journey. 
On  his  arrival,  he  found  the  pope  dead,  and  was  offered  the 
unanimous  votes  of  the  Conclave,  provided  he  engaged  to  res- 
tore Parma  to  Octavio  P'arnese.  Steadily  refusing  to  do  this, 
and  avowing  maxims  of  government  hostile   to  the  interests  of 


387 

those  that  adhered  to  that  prince,  they  had  address  enough  to 
substitute  Julias  the  Third  in  his  place. 

"  As  he  disdained  to  be  the  pandar  or  flatterer  of  the  new- 
pope,  he  was  neglected  by  him,  and  he  passed  the  next  three 
years  alternately  at  Rome  or  Altamura.  While  at  Rome,  he 
obtained  the  enthusiastic  veneration  of  the  people  by  his  devo- 
tion and  charity,  and  was  invested  by  them  with  a  miraculous 
power  over  vices  and  diseases.  He  resided  in  a  convent  which 
he  built  and  dedicated  to  St.  Ulpha,  and  which  he  made  the 
asylum  of  many  of  his  distressed  countrymen.  In  the  pulpit 
of  this  church,  he  was  accustomed  to  preach,  and  acquired  as 
much  fame  for  eloquence  as  any  preacher  of  that  age. 

"  During  the  life  of  Henry  VIII,  he  was  exposed  to  perpetu- 
al danger  of  poison  or  assassination  from  the  malice  and  re- 
venge of  that  prince.  These  efforts,  however,  only  served  to 
display  the  innocence  and  magnanimity  of  the  cardinal,  who 
uniformly  refused  to  use  any  precaution  against  such  plots,  and 
more  than  once  arrested  the  aim  of  the  assassin  by  mere  in- 
trepidity and  presence  of  mind.  His  conduct  in  the  conclave 
drew  upon  him  the  indignation  of  the  house  of  Farnese,  and 
lie  ran  an  imminent  risk  of  destruction  from  their  vengeance. 
Against  this,  as  well  as  the  former  danger,  he  provided  neither 
arms  nor  vigilance.  He  trusted  to  nothing  but  a  firm  and  equa- 
ble integrity,  and  the  protection  of  providence.  Death  being 
the  universal  lot,  he  considered  the  time  and  manner  as  in- 
different circumstances  ;  and  even  maintained  that  what  is  call- 
ed a  sudden  and  violent  death  is,  to  the  suflerer,  more  eligible 
than  the  lingering  and  painful  course  of  disease. 

"  When  he  first  arrived  in  Italy,  the  public  voice  and  the 
good  will  of  the  pope  would  not  suffer  him  to  choose  between 
a  public  and  private  station.  He  did  not  hesitate,  however,  to 
choose  the  government  of  some  province  belonging  to  the  see, 
in  preference  to  any  ministerial  office  at  Rome,  however  lucra- 
tive, or  to  any  diplomatic  mission  however  honourable  and 
important.  He  knew  that  in  the  former  station  he  should  be 
less  trammelled  by  the  orders  of  a  superior,  and  left  more  to 
the  guidance  of  his  own  understanding  than  in  the  latter.  He 
preferred  the  legatcship  of  Avignon,  tn  anv  nrh^".",  because  that 


388 

province  was  most  remote  from  the  capital,  and  the  government 
less  within  the  view,  and  less  liabl^  to  the  intermeddling  super- 
intendance  of  the  pontiff  and  his  ministers  ;  because  its  condi- 
tion was  more  miserable  and  consequently  stood  in  more  need 
of  a  just  and  beneficent  ruler,  than  that  of  any  other  province 
of  the  papal  empire. 

*'  He  bent  the  whole  force  of  his  mind  to  the  duties  of  his 
princely  office.  The  general  concerns,  both  religious  and  po- 
litical, of  Christendom,  did  not  escape  his  attention,  but  he 
carefully  abstained  from  intermeddling  with  them,  and  thus  en- 
joyed better  opportunities  of  protuoting  the  happiness  of  his 
immediate  subjects  than  any  of  those  who  had  preceded 
him. 

"  He  was  promoted  to  the  papacy  notwithstanding  the  in- 
trigues of  the  house  of  Austria,  but  this  exaltation  he  owed 
more  to  accident  than  design.  Notwithstanding  his  acknow- 
ledged merit,  there  were  few  members  of  the  conclave  who  es- 
poused his  cause,  for,  in  the  first  place,  he  regarded  the  tiara 
with  terror  rather  than  affection.  Its  duties  appeared  to  him 
arduous  beyond  his  power  to  discharge  them.  He  knew  that 
all  his  good  resolutions  would  be  defeated  by  the  spirit  of  the 
times.  Those  agents  and  counsellors  whom  he  should  be 
obliged  to  employ,  were  influenced  by  passions,  interests  and 
prejudices  hostile  to  his  favourite  plans.  He  dreaded  the  ne- 
cessity of  falling  down  the  general  stream  of  corruption,  and  of 
witnessing  and  sanctioning  proceedings  against  which  his  rea- 
son and  conscience  rebelled.  His  expectations  on  this  head 
were  indeed,  as  faint  as  his  hopes,  since  the  factions  which  di- 
vided the  conclave  had  all  of  them  interest  to  promote  en- 
tirely foreign  to  his.  He  embraced  no  party,  and  was  active 
neither  on  his  own  behalf  nor  that  of  any  other.  It  was  chance 
that  brought  him  to  Rome  at  the  critical  moment.  He  re- 
mained after  the  death  of  the  pope,  because  the  continuance  of 
his  office  depended  on  the  will  of  the  successor.  He,  at  first^ 
had  determined  not  to  enter  the  conclave,  but  was  finally  per- 
suaded to  change  his  purpose  by  Caprara,  the  only  intimate 
friend  he  had  in  the  college.  Caprara,  though  at  first  the 
friend  of  another  candidate,  became  afterwards  the   powerful 


389 

partizan  of  Felix,  and  by  the  exertion  of  consummate  address 
and  artifice  accomplished  his  unanimous  election.  Three  fac- 
tions contended  for  several  weeks  for  the  mastery.  One  of 
these  was  guided  by  the  Spaniards.  The  second  by  the  ne- 
phews of  the  late  pope,  while  the  third  embraced  the  cause  of 
moderation  and  virtue,  and  fixed  their  eyes  upon  Cardinal  de 
Salni,  a  prelate  who  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  English 
prince,  in  every  thing  but  health,  age  and  ambition.  An  in- 
firm constitution  and  great  age,  for  he  was  seventy-two,  recom- 
mended him  strongly  to  all  parties  in  the  college,  while  his  own 
ambition  made  him  as  auxious  to  iinprove  the  present  opportu- 
nity as  Felix  had  been  indifferent  and  remiss.  For  him,  Fe- 
lix intended  to  vote,  being  of  all  the-  candidates,  the  least  ex- 
ceptionable, but,  though  thus  disposed  himself,  he  made  use  of 
no  means  to  bring  over  others  to  his  sentiments. 

"  For  some  time,  though  neither  party  had  the  requisite  ma- 
jority, the  Spaniards  had  the  greatest  number  of  voices.  The 
CarafFas  came  next,  while  the  partizans  of  De  Salm,  though 
too  small  to  hope  for  success  were  sufficiently  numerous  to  de- 
cide the  election  by  joining  either  of  the  other  factions.  Though 
t,he  third  party  was  the  smallest  in  number,  it  consisted  of  men 
of  so  much  energy  and  zeal,  and  the  motives  of  their  choice 
were  so  little  connected  with  petty  interests  or  personal  attach- 
ments, that  there  was  little  hope  of  winning  them  to  any  other 
standard,  and  their  perseverance,  together  with  the  bitter  aver- 
sion which  the  two  other  factions  entertained  for  the  object  of 
each  others  choi  ce,  might  have  finally  prevailed,  if  unfortu- 
nately for  them,  De  Salm,  who  was  hastening  to  Rome  from 
Venice,  had  not  died  by  the  way.  The  fever  which  destroyed 
him,  was  imputed  to  the  hurry  and  anxiety  of  his  mind,  and 
the  unreasonable  expedition  he  had  made  use  of  in  his  journey. 
This  event  reduced  the  friends  of  reformation  to  despair,  and 
they  prepared  to  range  themselves  at  the  next  scrutiny,  with 
the  partizans  of  Spain.  The  contest  was  considered  as  decided, 
and  the  faction  of  Caraffa  hastened  to  enlist  themselves  under 
a  standard  which  they  saw  must  be  cro\\Tied  with  success  in 
spite  of  their  opposition.        ' 


390 

"  The  candidate,  whose  cause  appeared  thus  to  be  secure, 
was  a  native  of  Toledo,  of  obscure  birth,  but  of  great  natural 
abilities.  He  became  a  soldier  at  a  very  early  age,  and  rising 
soon  to  command,  he  signalized  himself  in  the  Spanish  wars 
against  the  Moors  as  much  by  ferocious  cruelty,  as  by  courage 
and  good  conduct.  After  a  while,  he  abjured  the  soldier  and 
turned  Monk,  and  being  raised  to  an  high  post  in  the  office  of  the 
Inquisition  in  Grenada,  he  contrived  to  make  his  new  function 
as  instrumental  to  death  and  destruction  as  his  former  one. 
Through  his  own  address  and  the  favour  of  Spain,  he  rose  at 
length  to  his  present  elevated  station  in  the  church  ;  and  though 
his  conduct  was  always  exempt  from  licentiousness  and  levity, 
he  was  generally  considered  as  exceeding  most  of  his  contem- 
poraries in  cruelty,   revenge,  pride  and  malice. 

"  He  attended  his  master  Philip  to  England,  and  while  there, 
quarrelled  with  Felix.  In  this  contest,  however,  he  was  worst- 
ed, and  his  pride  was  severely  mortified  by  the  treatment  he 
received  from  the  primate.  He  never  forgot  this  imaginary 
injury,  and  took  every  occasion  of  defaming  and  embarrassing 
the  author  of  it.  He  was  accustomed  to  stigmatize  Felix  as 
an  apostate,  heretic  and  traitor  ;  and  the  latter  had,  on  this 
very  occasion  been  summoned  to  Rome,  on  charges  exhibited 
by  him.  If  he  had  now  been  made  Pope,  the  malicious  accuser 
would  have  become  a  relentless  judge,  and  nothing  but  his 
high  rank,  and  the  veneration  of  all  Christendom  could  screen 
him  from  the  persecution  of  so  rancorous  an  enemy.  He  had 
now  the  certain  prospect  of  as  much  calamity  to  himself  and 
to  mankind  as  can  flow  from  the  character  of  a  pope,  and  al- 
ready ruminated  on  the  plan  of  withdrawing  entirely  from  all 
public  transactions,  and  sheltering  himself  in  the  shade  of  some 
cloister,  when  the  scrutiny  commenced.  The  surprising  re- 
sult was  that  many  more  than  the  adequate  proportion  of  suf- 
frages were  united  in  favour  of  Felix  himself.  He  was  the 
first  to  alledge  the  possibility  of  some  mistake  in  the  process, 
and  desired  it  to  be  repeated.  The  second  scrutin}'  was  still 
more  favourable,  and  thus,  without  the  smallest  previous  inti- 
maruni  or  suspicionj  did  he  find  himself  exalted  to  the  pinnacle 
of  honour. 


391 

**  This  surprising  revolution  was  brought  about  by  the  mere 
eloquence  of  Caprara,  who  in  a  separate  assembly  of  his  own 
adherents  and  those  of  Caraffa,  had  displayed  the  evils  result- 
ing from  the  choice  of  the  Spaniard  in  such  vivid  colours,  that 
they  finally  concurred  in  choosing  Felix,  and  the  scrutiny 
coming  on  while  their  imagination  was  occupied  and  inflamed 
by  this  rhetorick,  they  hurried  to  an  irrevocable  election. 
Though  no  choice  could  be  expected,  with  less  probability, 
from  the  prejudices  and  passions  of  such  electors,  no  choice 
could  be,  in  itself,  wiser  and  more  prudent,  and  none  could 
have  excited  more  joy  throughout  the  christian  world.  It  is, 
however,  as  signal  an  instance  of  the  triumph  of  eloquence 
over  the  resolutions  of  men  as   has  ever  been  recorded- 

"  When  informed  of  the  election  of  Felix,  the  king  of  Spain 
was  deepl)'  alarmed.  A  character  more  adverse  to  his  own  and 
more  hostile  to  all  his  views,  the  whole  college,  he  imagined 
could  not  afford.  His  terror  subsided  by  very  slow  degrees, 
and  it  was  not  wholly  dissipated  but  by  long  experience  of  the 
new  pontiff's  inflexible  integrity. 

"  The  scenes  of  cruelty  and  bigotry  which  then  polluted  al- 
most every  kingdom  in  Europe,  excited  the  horror  and  regret 
of  this  good  pontiff.  He  strenuously  counteracted  all  the  am- 
bitious projects  of  Philip  the  Second.  He  denied  his  sanction 
to  the  bloody  persecutions  of  that  monarch,  and  exerted  all  his 
influence  to  divert  him  from  his  wars  against  the  Flemings  on 
one  side,  and  the  Moors  on  the  other.  To  every  confederacy 
and  expedition  against  the  Turks  he  liberally  contributed. 
Among  the  powers  of  Europe,  he  acted  invariably  the  paternal 
part  of  a  peace-maker.  To  the  protestant  nations  he  behaved 
without  any  of  the  haughtiness  or  rancour  which  distinguished 
his  predecessors,  and  obtained  their  gratitude  and  veneration. 
In  the  government  of  his  own  territories,  he  anxiously  consult- 
ed the  happiness  of  the  people,  and  establibhed  order,  peace  and 
prosperity  among  them  in  a  degree  to  which  they  had  ever  be- 
fore, and  have  always  since  been  strangers.  No  pontiff  ever 
acquired,  in  an  equal  degree,  the  reverence  of  his  own  subjects 
and  those  acts  of  worship  which  tonn  tlie  regular  ceremonial  of 
the  nana!  court.  w<Te.  with  regard  to  iiim,  accomnnnied  bv  sen- 


392 

thnents  of  absolute  idolatry.  He  was  imagined,  by  the  vulgar, 
to  possess  a  supernatural  power  over  life  and  death,  and  those 
miracles^  which  modern  saints  usually  perform  after  their  death, 
were  universally  believed  to  be  performed  by  him  while  living* 
He  was  beatified  and  canonized  by  his  successor,  contrary  to 
established  usage,  but  with  the  general  applause  of  Christendom. 

"  During  his  thirty  years  retirement  in  Sardinia,  he  mighty 
with  more  propriety,  be  considered  as  the  sovereign,  than  his 
nephew.  Though  the  latter  had  an  impetuous  ambition,  which 
in  general  spurned  opposition  and  controul,  his  religion  taught 
him  to  consider  his  uncle  as  the  vicar  and  interpreter  of  God> 
to  whose  dictates  the  most  implicit  submission  was  a  sacred 
duty.  He  justly  regarded  his  uncle  as  the  sole  author  of  his 
greatness,  first,  in  giving  him  his  cousin  in  marriage,  next  in 
obtaining  a  cession  of  the  islands  from  Spain  and  Genoa ;  and, 
thirdly,  in  supplying  him  with  soldiers,  arms  and  ammunition  ; 
and,  lastly,  by  rendering  him  and  his  posterity  as  indepe  nden 
of  Rome  as  of  Spain. 

"  It  was  certainly  in  the  pope's  power  to  have  made  these 
islands  the  absolute  property  of  the  Roman  see.  In  extent  and 
fertility  they  were  not  inferior  to  the  papal  territories  in  Italy, 
and  their  insular  position  in  the  centre  of  the  Mediterranean 
made  them  much  more  secure  from  inroads  and  invasions  than 
the  dominions  on  the  continent.  As  they  might  be  considered 
as  having  been  purchased  by  the  pontifical  treasures,  the  see 
of  Rome  appeared  to  have  an  equitable  right  to  them,  and  as 
the  spiritual  authority  of  the  pope's  considerably  depended  on 
their  temporal  pov,^er,  this  addition  to  their  kingdom  would 
gi-eatly  contribute  to  their  weight  and  consequence.  Their  ec- 
clesiastical empire  had  been  vastly  impaired  during  this  century 
by  the  heresies  of  Calvin  and  Luther.  Their  revenues  had  ex- 
perienced a  proportionable  diminution,  but  these  losses  would 
be  more  than  counterbalanced  by  the  sovereignty  of  these 
islands,  where  not  only  the  whole  civil  and  sacerdotal  power 
might  be  vested  in  the  pope  ;  but  if  he  thought  proper,  the 
very  soil  itself,  and  all  that  it  produced  or  maintained. 

"  Though  the  subject  was  generally  viev/ed  in  this  light, 
the  pontiif  reasoned  in  a  very  different  manner.  He  consider- 
ed the  union  of  civil   and    ecclesiastical  fimctions  in  the  same 


;>yo 


purpose  as  a  prolific  source  of  corruption  and  depravity,  and 
as  the  principal  abuse  as  well  as  the  cause  of  almost  all  the 
abuses  with  which  the  court  of  Rome  had  been  charged.  The 
character  and  conduct  of  the  pontiffs  had  been  exposed  to  ri- 
dicule and  detestation,  by  their  indecent  lust  after  riches  and 
power,  by  their  ambition  and  perfidy  in  acquiring,  and  their 
prodigality  and  weakness  in  dismembering  the  lands  and  ter- 
ritories of  their  neighbours.  To  add  to  their  dominions, 
therefore,  would  only  add  to  their  luxury  and  vices,  would 
only  blend  and  entangle  still  more  jurisdictions  that  ought  to 
be  left  distinct  and  separate,  and  only  lend  to  diminish  the 
veneration  due  to  them  as  heads  of  the  church. 

Felix,  likewise,  well  knew  the  evils  and  corruptions  inse- 
parable from  the  civil  government  of  the  popes.  To  sub- 
ject these  islands  to  the  Roman  see  would  be  to  ensure  and 
perpetuate  the  superstition,  anarchy  and  misery  in  w*hich  their 
ancient  nftasters  had  plunged  them.  He  knew  that  his  own 
power  would  terminate  with  his  life,  and  that  the  principles 
by  which  he  had  conducted  the  government  would  probably 
be  laid  aside  and  forgotten  by  his  successor.  In  providing  for 
the  durable  welfare  and  felicity  of  his  new  territories  he 
conceived  himself  discharging  the  most  sacred  duties  of  his 
station,  and  the  treasures  which  belonged  to  him  as  j>ontifF 
could  not  be  employed  in  a  more  beneficent  and  salutaiy 
manner.  To  erect  a  kingdom  in  these  islands,  absolutely 
independent,  and  rendered  prosperous  and  powerful  by  wise 
institutions  and  laws,  would  be  to  augment  essentially  the 
strength  of  Christendom,  and  raise  up  a  bulwark  against 
the  progress  of  the  Turks  far  more  formidable  than  hither- 
to existed. 

These  views,  though  they  carried  irresistible  evidence  to 
his  own  thoughts,  he  could  not  with  propriety  and  safety, 
publish  to  the  world.  His  notions  on  the  propriety  of  se- 
vering the  temporal  and  spiritual  power  of  the  popes  would 
have  been  branded  as  the  most  odious  heresy.  On  this  head, 
therefore,  he  maintained  a  discreet  silence,  and  allowed  the  po- 
liticians of  the  age  to  arraign  his  motives  as  selfish  and  ambi- 
tious.    To  aggrandize  his  nephew,  and  gratify  his  own  am- 

50 


394  * 

bition  by  founding  a  new  and  powerful  kingdom,  were  naturally 
supposed  to  be  the  passions  that  swayed  him. 

To  effect  his  purposes,  he  conceived  it  necessary  not  only  to 
make  this  new  kingdom  as  distinct  as  possible  from  all  its  neigh- 
bours, and  especially  from  the  Roman  pontiffs,  in  political,  but 
also  in  ecclesiastical  matters.  There  was  no  great  diificulty  in 
giving  it  civil  independence.  It  was  easy  for  him  to  preserve 
the  princes  of  Sardinia  from  any  feudal  subordination  or  depen- 
dence on  Rome  :  but  to  deprive  his  successors  of  all  spiritual 
jurisdiction  in  these  islands,  should  seem  to  be  a  most  danger- 
ous project.  The  bigots  could  hardly  fail  to  clamour  loudly 
against  this  scheme.  The  pontiff  listened  with  patience  to  their 
reproaches,  and  pursued,  at  the  same  time,  his  own  way,  with 
inflexible  resolution.  He  restored  to  the  monasteries  their  an- 
cient discipline,  and  especially  their  right  to  choose  their  own 
abbots.  The  Deans  he  invested  with  the  choice  of  their  bishop, 
and  the  bishops,  first  with  the  choice  of  their  Deans,  and  second- 
ly with  that  of  the  archbishop  of  Tinina.  He  allowed  none  to 
be  eligible  to  any  of  these  offices,  but  natives  and  residents  with- 
in the  islands,  and  obliged  them  not  only  to  pass  through  a  long 
probationary  trial,  but  to  subscribe  to  the  creeds  and  canons 
which  he  ordained  and  prescribed.  He  prescribed  rules  for  as- 
sembling synods  and  insular  councils,  and  explained  -with  great 
exactness  and  minuteness,  their  jurisdictions  and  privileges  and 
duties.  For  himself,  as  pope,  and  his  successors,  he  solemnly 
renounced,  after  a  certain  period,  all  the  claims  and  prerogatives, 
hitherto  enjoyed  by  the  Roman  bishops,  and  either  abolished 
them  entirely,  or  vested  them  in  the  archbishops,  bishops  and 
abbots  of  the  island. 

Felix  had  certainly  reason  to  congratulate  himself  on  his 
rare  good  fortune.  Among  the  reveries  of  his  youth,  the  fa- 
vourite dream  was  that  of  a  government,  ecclesiastical  and  civil, 
perfectly  constituted  and  perfectly  administered.  By  attaining 
the  papacy,  and  then  acquiring,  in  his  nephew's  person,  the  ab- 
solute possession  of  these  islands,  he  obtained  the  power  of 
modelling  the  government  and  laws  of  a  considerable  territory, 
in  a  degree  only  inferior  to  that  which  the  deity  himself  pos- 
sessed. He  was  exposed  to  none  of  the  difficulties  which  ordi- 
nary legislators  have  to  encounter.     As   to  the  people  them- 


selves,  the  success  of  his  nephew's  arms  had  put  their  proper- 
ty and  lives  into  his  hands,  and  their  implicit  faith  subjected 
their  most  ancient  customs  and  inveterate  opinions  to  his  abso- 
lute controul,  as  supreme  pontiff.  By  his  will,  their  religion 
permitted  every  fundamental  law  and  moral  obligation  to  be 
changed  or  modified.  As  to  their  former  masters,  Felix  had 
entered  the  islands  as  the  friend  and  ally  of  Spain,  and  Philip 
had  forever  renounced  all  dominion  and  superiority  over  them. 
As  to  the  papal  claims,  which,  in  ordinary  cases  would  have 
been  most  difficult  to  withstand  or  elude,  the  pope  himself 
found  it  at  once,  his  duty  and  interest  to  renounce  them,  and 
his  whole  pontifical  authority  was  exerted  not  to  uphold  or  en- 
force, but  to  annihilate  them. 

So  far  as  a  new  religion  consists  in  selecting  a  new  object  of 
worship,  and  regulating  the  social  duties  and  private  conduct 
of  men  by  new  maxims,  he  Roman  pontiffs  are  invested  with 
considerable  pov/er  in  prescribing  and  new  modelling  religion. 
An  order  is  an  institution  by  which  men  bind  themselves  to 
practise  certain  duties,  either  in  relation  to  God  in  acts  of  wor- 
ship, or  in  relation  to  their  fellow  men.  This  institution  to  be 
valid  must  be  sanctioned  by  the  pope,  after  which  it  becomes  a 
legal  obligation  the  observance  of  which  is  enforced  by  the 
same  penalties  as  obedience  to  any  civil  laws  whatsoever.  Such 
orders  may,  in  many  respects,  be  considered  as  new  sects, 
whose  birth  and  increase  produce  no  jealousy  or  scandal,  and 
which  are  branches  of  the  general  religion  of  a  nation  that 
rather  add  strength  and  beauty  to  the  main  stock  than  take 
them  away. 

Under  this  view,  and  in  virtue  of  this  prerogative,  it  was 
in  the  power  of  Felix,  to  bestow  on  the  Sardinians  a  religion 
as  well  as  a  government,  in  many  respects,  new  and  peculiar  to 
themselves.  By  creating  a  new  order,  whose  patronness  should 
be  St.  Ulpha,  and  by  dividing  this  order  into  many  classes  and 
branches,  there  was  no  great  difficulty  in  making  it  comprehend, 
under  the  different  classes,  almost  all  the  community  ;  and  thus 
creating  a  species  of  religion,  on  the  object  of  worship  :  in  the 
language,  symbols  and  rites  of  that  worship,  and  in  those  articles 
of  faith  which  prescribe  to  us  what  we  must  do,  and  from  what 
we  must  abstain,  visibly  different  from  any  prevailing  in  thf 
world. 


396 

I  mentioned  before  that  this  pontiff  believed  himself  under 
tiie  visible  and  direct  influence  of  St.  Ulpha,  in  every  important 
action  of  his  life,  and  in  all  his  religious  opinions.  The  whole 
system,  ecclesiastical  and  civil,  of  Sardinia,  flowed  immediately 
from  this  source,  and  had  therefore  a  divine  authority  in  the 
minds  of  its  disciples  not  inferior  to  that  of  any  system  of  re- 
ligion whatever.  Felix  not  only  by  virtue  of  his  office,  but  like- 
wise by  virtue  of  a  special  revelation,  was  the  messenger  and 
interpreter  of  Heaven,  and  his  decrees  were  submitted  to  as  the 
expressed  will  of  God. 

Notwithstanding  all  the  abuses   in  their  government,  the  two 
Islands    were    extremely  populous    in    the    sixteenth  century. 
Though  roughened   by  mountains   and  rocks,  and  embarrassed 
by  fens  and  pools,  they  contained  many  fertile  vallies  and  lux- 
uriant plains.     The  exti  erne  simplicity  of  the   people   in  their 
mode  of  life,   and  the  natural  nuidness  of  their  climate,  made 
subsistence  cheap  and   eas3%      Almost  their  only  beverage  was 
water  and  a   weak  wine,  and  their  diet  bread  made  of  maize, 
with  the  milk,  butter  and  cheese  of   their  flocks.  An  home  man- 
ufacture of  coarse  cotton  supplied  them  with  all  their  cloathing, 
and  the  few  articles  they  got  from  other  grounds  or  hands  than 
their    own,    were   obtained  in    barter    for    their  silk,    honey, 
olives,  the  surplus  produce  of  their  dairies  and  increase  of  their 
cattle.     In  spite  of  anarchy  and  turbulence,  oppression  and  ne- 
glect, their  villages  v/ere   thickly  strewn  among  rocks  and  pre- 
cipices, and  a  cottage  seemed  to  grow  up  as  naturally  as  a  chesnut 
tree,  in  every  hollow  or  crevice  that  afforded  a  footing  for  one. 
A  village  is  a  cluster  of  houses,  consisting  each  of  one  room, 
about  twelve  or  fifteen  feet  in  diameter  by  as  many  high.  They 
are  of  a  conical  figure,  built  of  loose  irregular  stones  which 
abound  every  where,  and  which  are  nicely  adjusted  to  each  other 
so  as  to  constitute  a  firm  and  even  wall.    At  a  distance  they  have 
pretty    much  the  appearance  of  tents  having  nearly  the  same 
shape  and  colour.     Their  grapes  are  planted  in  spots  favoura- 
ble to  cultivation.     The  grand  close  about  the  village  is  laid  out 
in  plots  of  about  four  acres  in  each  ;  of  these  there  are  as  many 
as  there  are  houses,  and  consequently  families  in   the   village. 
Their  allotments  are  cultivated  with  the  hoe  and  fork. 

END    OF    VOL.    I. 


Date  Due 

' 

1 

813.23     D921L       v.l       577603 
Dunlap . 


Thft    liffi    of    nVrarleF^rJDCJi^ 

den  Brown 


MAYl 


ISSUED  TO 


6  395^ 


813,23  D921L        v.l  577603 


